


The Bombing

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: (not much of it though), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blow Jobs, Coma, Confessions, Depression, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Sex, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Hospitals, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse (Non- Sexual), Past Drug Addiction, Rehabilitation, Serious Injuries, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Tenderness, Total Locked-In Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-26 16:11:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bomber has been decimating New York. Sherlock and Marcus are on the case... until they become targets.</p><p> </p><p>(Marcus/Sherlock centric.)<br/>(written before season 5.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluesyturtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/gifts).
  * Inspired by [stand back on the edge of your voice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3533303) by [fideliant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant). 



 

MARCUS

 

He gazed up at the sky.

It was a brooding, swirling, tempest grey, storm clouds sitting threateningly atop him. He looked up at the grey mass and couldn’t remember where he was, or why he was there. There was bitumen under him, biting into his skin, but he couldn’t feel it- he was also numb to the blood covering him, sticky and gluey, warm rather than hot because of how long he’d been lying there.

Marcus realised he’d been woken by drops of rain falling into his face. One landed beneath his right eye and he blinked reflexively, a whole second of delayed reaction before the movement. He tried to think harder, but his brain was sluggish, heavy.

He lay there for a while more before he remembered something- vaguely, he recalled the memory of an explosion ripping through him, through them both, making the world erupt with fire and the car he was in disappear. Sherlock had been beside him, in the passenger seat, and everything had been still- that’s right, he remembered now. He’d been taking a call. Parked on the side of the road. He’d hung up, put his phone away, and then he’d…. gone. Everything moved, then stopped. Slammed to a halt. Bitumen against his face.

Marcus turned his head to the left. His eyes focussed, eventually, and he found himself looking at the car.

Or. He found himself looking where most of the car was scattered.

There were pieces all over the road on which he lay, smouldering with a lazy smoke that drifted into the still air. It was surreal. He remembered his hands on the wheel, palms against a dashboard, a coffee resting on the roof. It had been so hard and sturdy and whole, and now it was twisted and curved and bent as if it was made of putty. Marcus looked through the wreck blankly, not comprehending what he saw, not concerned about the fact he’d obviously been thrown from the car, and that he could feel none of his limbs.

It was only when he saw an arm, hanging limply from a chunk of the car, that his eyes widened and recognition found a place in his head.

_Sherlock._

He rolled onto his side and, still feeling no pain, pulled himself up, the world tilting and heaving upwards as he stood. He staggered and everything heaved. His legs weren’t working properly.

As he stumbled forward, the ground surging towards his eyes every time he nearly fell, he found his phone in his pocket, a crack slicing through the screen. He dialled with shaking fingers, surprised to see blood on his hands, and held it to his ear.

“This…” His voice was blurred, unrecognisable, and he realised it was his ears ringing. He blinked hard, and tried again, hoping the words would come out sounding right; “This is Detective Bell, badge number 42819. I- I don’t know where I am. There was a crash, we… Sherlock and I, we were chasing up a lead, and… I think there was a bomb. I think we got bombed, and the car, it’s…” He stopped.

Sherlock was lying parallel to the ground, still strapped into his seat, which had been tipped backwards at a ninety-degree angle along with the rest of the car. His arm was outstretched and bloody, his head tipped to the side. There was a slice of metal, torn from the bonnet, lodged in Sherlock’s chest, shining under all the blood, pinning him to the seat like a skewer.

_“Detective Bell?”_

Marcus reeled, then, and fell onto his knees next to the car. Sherlock’s eyes were open, and looking at him with a clarity that terrified Marcus. It would be better if he were already dead. He was going to die, and he was going to die awake.

_“Detective Bell, report. Are you injured?”_

Marcus lifted the phone to his ear again. He met Sherlock’s eyes, trying not to look at the metal sitting just below Sherlock’s collarbone, cutting through flesh and organs, and he felt like crying. He couldn’t fix this. They were miles from anywhere, and the best man Marcus had ever known was bleeding out in front of him.

He told the operator their location, or what he could remember of it, and Sherlock’s injuries, making sure to stress that Sherlock couldn’t be given any addictive substances. He said it all with a falsely calm voice, the words damage control running through his empty head.

Marcus hung up when the operator asked about his injuries.

He threw the phone to the side and sat looking at Sherlock. He stared at the metal and felt sick. He couldn’t take it out. That’d make the bleeding worse. He shifted up, reaching out both hands, and pressed them either side of it instead, to stem the bleeding. Sherlock made a strange strangled sound that came from the back of his throat, and opened the floodgates for all of Marcus’ panic. He became aware of his heart again, as it began to beat harder.

“You’ll be okay.” Marcus said as he wondered how long it would take Sherlock to die.

They didn’t speak for a long time after that. Marcus listened to Sherlock’s uneven, shallow breathing as the rain fell softly from the sky. Marcus wondered how he could hold something over Sherlock’s head, protecting his face from the rain, while still keeping pressure on the wound. The puzzle kept his addled mind very busy.

Eventually, Sherlock’s hanging hand rose, drifting gently up Marcus’ side. Marcus, whose entire world had been reduced to keeping pressure on Sherlock’s chest, started and looked up.

Sherlock was smiling. It was a sweet, careless smile, and something about it made Marcus’ heart stop.

Love.

He could see love in those eyes.

“I’m glad… it’s you. Here.” Sherlock’s voice was a strained whisper Marcus wouldn’t have been able to hear, were he not leaned over him. Blood was everywhere. Sherlock’s skin was white against the soaked seat, fabric turned a thick, sickening black from it. It pooled in Sherlock’s throat. Made Marcus’ hands hot and sticky. “I’d… never have gotten to… tell you…”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m not… amiable to… relationships… But, if I had to try… I would… choose you.”

Marcus pressed harder when he noticed Sherlock’s eyes drifting closed. He’d barely even heard what Sherlock had said. “Tell you what. We’ll go on a date, you and me. After this. Okay?”

Sherlock smiled again, softly. “I’d… like that.”

“But you gotta stay awake, yeah? Stay with me.”

“You’re... special.” Sherlock sucked in a breath. Marcus wondered whether they inhabited the same pain-free, floating world right now. He had no idea how much, or little, he was injured. He couldn’t feel anything. “You’re… good…”

“Yeah, says the guy who saves lives as a hobby. ‘Ey, look at me. Sherlock?”

“Wanted you… for so long…”

“Why didn’t you ever say nothin’ then?”

“You’d… say… no…”

“You obviously don’t know me very well. Sherlock? Sherlock! Look at me goddamnit!” He lifted a hand from the mess of blood and flesh and metal to slap Sherlock as hard as he could across the face.

Sherlock blinked hard, and Marcus felt a dizzying swell of relief to see annoyance on Sherlock’s face. “That… That hurt.”

“Yeah, well, maybe if you keep lookin’ at me like I’m askin’-”

“You’re… Marcus, you’re…!” Sherlock’s eyes widened. His hand rose again, fingers groping blindly against Marcus, tugging weakly at him. “You’re bleeding…!”

“I’m fine. Just stay still- don’t move, you- Stay still!”

Sherlock had moved the metal a few inches when he tried to lean up off the seat. He fell backwards with a hollow gasp that didn’t reach his lungs, face growing a few shades whiter than it had been before.

“Jesus Christ- look at me. Look at me, Sherlock. Look at me!” Marcus’ voice rose in fear. Sherlock wasn’t focussing. His lips were trembling, and blood had begun to swell powerfully between Marcus’ fingers, pulsing from the wound. “Fuck, fuck- look at me, don’t go, don’t die-”

Sherlock began to make small whines of noise, like a wounded animal or a terrified child. His hand was spasming, shaking where it hung.

“Sherlock! Look at me!”

Sherlock couldn’t.

Marcus pressed harder, harder. He kept calling out to Sherlock, until he was no longer just asking, he was begging for Sherlock to come back to him, but there was nothing he could do. Sherlock’s eyes were closing. He slapped him again, harder this time, as hard as he could, but Sherlock didn’t feel it.

Blood was pouring now. Marcus’ forearms were covered in it.

He leaned forward, crying now, and kissed Sherlock. He tasted blood, felt the softness of Sherlock’s lips, and then the world went black. The last thing he knew was the ground moving upwards to meet his body.

 

 

 

GREGSON

 

Gregson was sitting in his office when the call came through.

_“The bomber’s struck again. He got Bell and your consultant.”_

He went to the car that was waiting, driven by a grim-faced officer Gregson couldn’t care to know the name of right now. As the roadside sped by, he tried not to panic. He’d already started to prepare himself for the loss of two of the best men he knew. He’d already started to prepare himself for having to tell Joan that her significant other, her dear Sherlock, was gone. He’d already started to prepare himself for breaking the news to Andre Bell, and probably starting him on a downward spiral- one that would inevitably send him back down the road Marcus had helped him escape.

He’d already prepared himself for the loss of two friends.

After all, there had been four bombings throughout New York in the last month already, and none of the other victims had survived. They’d been assigned the case, liaising with other NYPD precincts, as well as the FBI. Sherlock had volunteered his assistance. Marcus had been chosen because he was one of Gregson’s most exceptional detectives.

And now, Gregson found himself wondering whether it’d been worth it.

When they arrived, a paramedic ran to them and told him that Marcus and Sherlock were still alive, and he felt sick with relief. But it was short-lived.

Marcus was being rolled slowly onto his back by three paramedics, an oxygen mask on his face. His white shirt was covered in blood, not all of it coming from the wide gash in his head or the strange and unnatural angle of his legs; there was a ghastly raised point in the middle of both his shins, and Gregson knew from one glance it was protruding bone.

It was when he saw Sherlock, however, Gregson went still, unable to walk any closer. Firemen and paramedics surrounded what was left of him, cutting him free, but Gregson couldn’t see the point. Sherlock was gone. Gregson was looking at a corpse. He felt a heavy, sinking despair; it was fifteen minutes to the nearest hospital.

He stayed, standing by the roadside, clenching his phone in his pocket, a constant war waging within him as Joan weighed on his mind. He’d have to tell her. But he wasn’t sure he could do it now.

He stayed. He stayed while Marcus was wheeled off the scene, whisked away in an ambulance with screaming sirens.

He stayed while they pulled Sherlock free and he was placed on a stretcher, limp and heavy in a way only the dead were. He stayed while the rain fell and the ambulance doors closed, catching a glimpse of paramedics trying to resuscitate Sherlock. He stared at the vehicle as it sped away, and the image of Sherlock’s dead body arching off the stretcher was scored into his mind in a way he knew he’d never forget.

He stayed. The rain poured.

Eventually, he left.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

WATSON

 

Joan’s chest and neck were beginning to warm, heated by the lamp she had turned on beside her. It was 1 AM, and she’d been working on this case all night and all morning; she remembered that once, when she’d just met Sherlock and everything was new and unfamiliar, she’d never have been able to do this. The words on the page would blur, her eyelids would grow heavy, she would start to slip. But now, she was better. The printed words were stark against the paper, her memory was eating up every sentence calmly and methodically, retaining all the information steadily. She could do this forever.

But she did need a coffee.

She stood, switching off the lamp, and followed the hallway light to the kitchen. It was then she heard the knocking. She looked at her watch, confirming that it was, indeed, an utterly stupid time for someone to be visiting. Unless it was Sherlock, but he had a key, and he’d said that he would be out tonight after he’d finished following a lead with Marcus- out with an acquaintance, he’d said. Joan, fully able to translate Sherlock’s code, hadn’t inquired further.

She went to the door and opened it a few inches, the gap revealing Gregson’s face. Confused, she opened it fully.

“Hey, Captain.”

There was a cop car behind him, parked by the street. His face was grim, and Joan felt dread settle into her stomach.

“Can I come inside?” He asked softly.

Joan nodded, letting him in. “What’s this about?”

Gregson sighed. He turned away from Joan, put a hand on his forehead. The dread in Joan’s stomach was creeping up her chest, into her heart, clenching tight.

He turned to her. There was a redness around his eyes that, contrary to Gregson’s years in the police force, told Joan he’d been crying.

“Sherlock and Marcus were bombed. They’ve been taken to hospital, but…” He took a breath. “They lost Sherlock at the crime scene. He was trapped in the car and, in the time it took to get to him, he… He slipped away. They were reviving him in the ambulance as they left.”

Joan went still. She swallowed hard; she’d been on the giving end of news like this so many times, and she knew that the world kept turning, kept marching on with cruel indifference. Time didn’t stop. Seconds passed, and still nothing had changed. She felt panic seizing her and she pushed it down, crushed it beneath her, because she couldn’t lose control just yet. That was reserved for when she knew there was no longer hope.

“Take me to the hospital.”

Gregson nodded. They left.

 

 

 

GREGSON

 

A week passed.

Both Sherlock and Marcus were still in comas. Joan finished up her last case, catching the culprit and typing it off as neatly as she always had. She started to wear her hair pulled hard back, and her smiles seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a severe lack of expression. Her voice was low, calm and soft, but not happy.

She disappeared from the precinct along with Marcus and Sherlock, and the three of them together created a void that left uncomfortable silences, worried faces and sad glances towards Marcus’ desk. Flowers, cards and teddy bears piled up on Marcus’ bedside. Sherlock, instead of gifts, was visited by various people, none of whom Gregson knew, all with the deepest expressions of mourning and sadness anyone could have for someone who wasn’t family. And still, Sherlock’s actual family remained gone; it appeared the absentee father wasn’t swayed by the fact his son was on life support.

Gregson, on this particular morning, was stopping by to see them both. They’d been given a shared hospital room in the Coma Ward.

Marcus was still in a coma; his legs were both broken, in casts up past his thighs. He had sustained minor damage to his skull, a broken nose, and some bruising; when he’d flown from the car, he’d landed feet-fist, which sounded horrific to Gregson, but it’d been what saved him from quadriplegia or certain death.

Compared to Sherlock, he’d gotten off lightly.

Sherlock had a jagged line of fifty stitches across his chest. An inch deeper, and the metal would’ve severed his oesophagus, and inch lower, and it would’ve punctured his lungs. His right arm and collarbone were broken, his ribs were fractured and broken in various places, and his skull was cracked- but the worst of it was the damage to his brain. The words the doctors had used were, ‘possible cognitive difficulties’. It had been the equivalent of a death sentence. Sherlock would rather die than not be able to think properly. When she heard the doctor give his prognosis, Joan had gone silent- she’d gone home, then, turned off her phone for three days, and not spoken to anyone. The next time Gregson had seen her, they’d been in the hospital room, and Joan was an entirely new person. Cold. Distant. Her defences were up, and they were staying that way.

Gregson leaned against the wall, a coffee in his hand. He sighed deeply. He’d just left a press conference, and it had exhausted him. They had no leads. The FBI was no help. And the news was being bombarded with pictures of Sherlock and Marcus, along with the headlines, _BOMBER TARGETS POLICE, TERRORIST ATTACKS POLICEMAN, CIVILLIAN NEARLY KILLED BY TERRORIST ACT, CIVILLIAN AND POLICEMAN BOMBED_ , and all manner of variations on that theme.

Sherlock had saved so many lives, helped so many people. Even if he did wake up, which seemed unlikely, he didn’t deserve what would come next. He was a saviour to so many, and now he was probably going to die in a hospital bed at the age of forty.

Marcus. Marcus didn’t deserve this either. It was unlikely his injuries would kill him, but the guilt might. Survivor’s guilt.

The walls and room were bright, but it was the bleakest day Gregson had experienced for a long time. He could count on Marcus survival, but not on Sherlock’s. Joan could count on nothing, because everything she knew and loved was in limbo.

He took a sip of the coffee he held in his hand. The cardboard was warm and familiar in his hand, against his skin.

It should’ve been comforting.

 

When he got back to the precinct and sat down, just about to take a breath before the work started, Detective Rachel Sanchez appeared in his doorway.

“We’ve got two civilians here about Mr Holmes, sir,”, she began, an apologetic look on her face. They’d had a seemingly endless number of people turning up and saying they wanted to assist in Sherlock’s case. They seemed to forget there was an entire list of victims that preceded this latest bombing, not to mention that Marcus had been in the car next to Sherlock when the bomb had detonated.

He sighed. Sanchez was a good cop. As good as Marcus. If he asked, she’d turn them away herself, and be fully capable of ensuring discretion and keeping them calm. But, while he wasn’t obliged to meet with every civilian that had something to say, this was an exception. He felt obligated.

“Show them in.”

Sanchez smiled. She was his lead detective, since Marcus had been put in hospital. “They seem pretty reasonable, sir, if that’s any consolation.”

He sat back in his seat. Prepared himself.

When Sanchez brought them in, Gregson was shocked; they were reasonable. Surprisingly so. Their expressions were deeply troubled, jaws set, eyes hard. But there was no blubbering, no sniffing and- most relieving of all- no anger. They were a man and a woman, almost identical, with long white hair and white eyelashes. Twins. Gregson realised he’d seen them before; on television. He paused and blinked, thinking, _did a pair of models just walk into my office?_

He supposed he really did see something new every day. He stood, shook their slender hands, and gestured for them to sit. They did.

“I’m Alice Tyding. This is James Tyding,” The woman gestured to her brother, her voice a smooth Californian accent, and Gregson wondered whether they always lived like they were in a photoshoot. She licked her lips once, and frowned. “We were hesitant about coming to you today. Our managers would prefer we hadn’t.”

Gregson folded his hands under his chin, frowned. “And why have you come?”

The sister looked to her brother. Their eyes met, and they sighed in unison.

“We didn’t just know Sherlock.” James Tyding’s voice was the same as his sister’s, pitched lower by a few octaves. He reached over and took his her hand, long white fingers folding over knuckles. “We were supposed to be meeting him that night.”

Gregson nodded. He’d been wondering when the mystery lovers would come forward.

“We just thought we should tell you,” Alice Tyding explained. “Given the investigation. We were… very close to Sherlock. We saw him often.”

“So, why would you managers not have wanted you to come?”

They both laughed.

“It’s a scandal, for us to be involved with the surviving son of one of the wealthiest families in London.” James shrugged. “Especially as it implies that I’m gay.”

“They’re waiting for the right time to reveal the affair.” Alice added. “When the sponsors start losing interest, they’ll break the news to the press. People’re always fetishizing twins, so it’ll be the perfect way to secure more modelling deals.”

Gregson couldn’t believe this. They could’ve been talking about the weather. They hadn’t been close to Sherlock at all, not in any way that mattered- then again, from what he knew of Sherlock, that would have been perfect. Which was why he, reasonably, shouldn’t have felt so outraged.

“Can you verify your whereabouts for-”

“We were in our penthouse, waiting for Sherlock. We have cameras. You can verify it.”

Gregson nodded. Why bother showing sympathy? They clearly didn’t care. “Well. Thanks for coming forward.”

Alice Tyding smiled- a full, fake, glitzy magazine grin. Showing all her white teeth. “And I trust you’ll keep this news from the press?”

The outrage, again. Rising like bile.

“Sure thing.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

MARCUS

 

The world was sluggish and drowsy, hazy and out of focus. Pain was there too, made heavy and slow by painkillers- Marcus could feel a needle in his arm when he twitched it, when he managed to gain enough control over his body that he could move. There was a weight on his face, a smooth plastic surface he would later recognise as a breathing mask, but for now was just something that made him panic, made him scared. He tried to lift his hands, get it off him, but he flailed. His eyes wouldn’t open. There was a noise, high-pitched, that wouldn’t go away, and he wanted it to stop. He needed to escape. He needed to find Sherlock.

“Marcus. Marcus, it’s alright. Can you hear me? Marcus?”

He tried to speak. He didn’t know who the woman was. Maybe she could help him, maybe she could take him to Sherlock, maybe she could tell him what was happening-

“Marcus. Calm down, Marcus, it’s alright-”

Everything dimmed, spun, and then he was asleep.

 

 

 

GREGSON

 

“Marcus woke up today.”

Gregson looked up from his desk, eyes wide. Joan was in his doorway, in as much of a state of disarray as he’d ever seen her, breathing hard as if she’d been running. He imagined she probably had been.

He stood, pulling off his glasses. “Is he awake now?”

She shook her head. “No, he’s… He’s sedated. But they think he might be­ awake this afternoon.”

Gregson nodded. “Okay. Okay, thanks.”

She took a deep breath and swept some black hair behind her ear, nodding to herself. She hovered there for a few awkward moments- this was the first time Gregson had seen her in several days, and it occurred to him she might want some company.

“You want a coffee?”

Joan looked up. She bit her bottom lip, glanced to the side, and then swallowed. “I don’t want to keep you from work, if you’re busy.”

He waved vaguely at his desk. “No, no. Nothing pressing.”

She paused. Her haste from before, her excitement and panic at Marcus waking up, was receding. Her cold protective layer was coming down to shield her. “Aside from the bomber?”

“I’ve got teams scouring the city, Joan. We’re chasing up every lead we’ve got. One coffee won’t hurt.”

Joan nodded. “Alright.”

 

They went to a place outside of Gregson’s usual jurisdiction, in the sense that it wasn’t frequented by cops. They were surrounded by civilians who would politely turn their head away if a stranger- namely, Joan- got upset. He doubted it’d come to that, but she was a professional, and she valued her reputation. He owed her that.

She ordered a latte with skim milk and two sugars. The sugars weren’t her usual. He wondered if it was her version of comfort food.

“Where are you at with the bomber?”

“We’ve got a few suspects, a few leads.” He paused. He had to remain deliberately vague; she wasn’t allowed a part in the investigation, given the more than obvious conflict of interest. Hell, even he’d had to be interviewed and deemed emotionally and psychologically sound before he’d been able to keep running the manhunt. “The bomber… He’s putting transmitting devices in the cars. He can hear everything what happens during the crash and- from what we’ve been able to gather- what happens afterwards.”

She nodded slowly. Her dark eyes were calculating. “Sounds like a black box.”

“Similar, yeah.”

“Are they homemade devices? Like the bombs?”

“I can’t confirm or deny that, and you know it. I’ve said too much already.”

She looked down at her coffee. They both knew they’d solve this case quicker with her on it, but frankly, he wasn’t willing to risk her involvement. For her sake as well as the Department’s.

“How’re you doing?” It was the first time he’d asked.

She tapped on the side of her cup. “The bomber must be a sadist. Unless he’s just looking for proof the bomb was successful, though I doubt that’s it. He wants recordings of the deaths he causes.”

Gregson got the message loud and clear; don’t ask that question again. He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

They sat and drank their coffees.

 

***

 

Marcus woke several more times, briefly, the periods of consciousness growing longer and more lucid. The doctors were more than hopeful; they moved him from the Coma Ward, and he continued to show growing improvement. They stopped permitting visitors while his brain struggled to cope with being awake. Gregson met with them frequently, and every time they told him the same thing; he was getting better, and he wanted to see Sherlock.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

MARCUS

 

Marcus woke, and this time he knew where he was. He was in a hospital. Again.

Doctors came and went, checking him and speaking quietly at him, but none of them would tell him if Sherlock was alive. There was a collection of flowers, cards and even a teddy bear, sitting on his bedside table. He wondered how much time had passed.

Then Joan and Gregson walked in.

“Sherlock,” Marcus choked out, unable to say any more.

“He’s alive.”

The two words were a miracle delivered in Joan’s gentle, loving voice, and Marcus started crying.

Hands pressed against him, against his shoulders and his arms, and he felt protected, every fibre of his being clinging to their touch. He cried until he could breathe again.

“You gave us a real scare, Detective.” Gregson looked tired, but he was smiling.

Marcus laughed, and ended up coughing. The pain came to him in pinpricks, and it was only then he looked down and saw both his legs in casts up to his thighs.

“The fuck…?”

“They were badly broken when you were thrown from the car.” Joan said flatly.

“I… I had no idea.” Marcus stared down at his feet. He curled his toes and could see them moving above the white cast. “I didn’t feel it.”

“That’s common in trauma victims. You were in shock.” Joan sat back in her chair, one delicate and unbelievably strong hand curled around his arm. It was an anchor. “It’s been a week and five days since the crash.”

“Can I see him?”

Joan and Gregson regarded him with equal amounts of sadness and worry.

“He’s… not awake, Marcus. Maybe you should wait-”

“No.” Marcus swallowed heavily. Sherlock was alive, and that was enough. He was alive. “I want to see him.”

“Marcus, you need to rest-”

“He was-” Marcus took a breath, tried to calm himself. The casts on his legs felt heavy, and he was trapped, couldn’t move. He had to get out. “He was dying- He was _dead_ , and I need to see him. Please. Please.”

They looked despaired. Joan put a hand on his cheek and told him to relax, and Gregson went to go get a wheelchair.

 

Sherlock was wired to machines, surrounded by metal and cables. There was a plastic breathing device taped to his face, a brace holding his neck, wires criss-crossing a stomach covered in bandages. His right arm was in a cast, his head was shaved and dotted with lines of precise, surgical stitches. Looking at him didn’t help Marcus feel better, but the steady beeping filling the room did. Sherlock was alive, and every single heartbeat that reached Marcus’ ears was the sweetest music he’d ever hear.

“Are you alright?” Joan asked.

Marcus thought of the press of Sherlock’s lips, kissing a dead man’s slack mouth, how he’d tasted blood, how they probably would never get to go on that date. He thought of their friendship. He thought of the bullet he'd taken for Sherlock, the fight that'd ensued afterwards, how close they'd become after he'd completed his rehab. He thought of bees, of deductions, of hesitant smiles, of coffee in takeaway cups, of working late into the night with a man he'd come to trust.

“No.” Marcus replied distantly.

He reached down and wheeled himself closer, the movement unfamiliar and new, straining on arms which had been made weak by days spent unconscious.

Joan and Gregson hovered behind him, no one saying anything for a very long while. Marcus forgot they were there, until Joan spoke up, quietly suggesting that he go back to his hospital room. Marcus shook his head, aware now that there were tears on his face, making his cheeks wet. He held back the sobs, kept them locked in his throat, scraping back whatever semblance of his pride was left.

They let him stay, but they stayed with him, which wasn’t something he wanted. He wanted to be alone, to let these sobs out, to let it all out. He wanted to scream, shout and destroy, demand that Sherlock wake up, force him to open his eyes and breathe on his own. He wanted to turn back time, and he was angry, he was _so fucking angry._

But he just sat there instead. Silently. It all boiled and raged inside him.

Then, the three of them left.

 

 

 

SHERLOCK

 

He was awake.

No one knew it, but he was.

He had several theories as to why he had such clarity, and yet was unable to move his body at all. At first, the panic had nearly killed him; waking up, a tube down his throat, trying to reach to pull it out, feeling as if it was choking him, a needle in his arm making him quake right down to his bones, unable to move, unable to move, _unable to move-_

It took a few days to accept his situation.

Coma patients were known to remember snippets of their time unconscious, but this was something else. His favoured theory was that he was suffering from Total Locked-In Syndrome. Rare, but the most likely explanation.

The drugs worried him, at first, but he overheard the doctor telling Joan that he’d been put on the least addictive drugs available. He didn’t feel high. He didn’t feel like he was getting hit after hit, constantly on a trip. He felt… trapped. But that was it. He reached the relieving conclusion that he hadn’t relapsed against his will.

After all, he reasoned, prescription drugs never had been his vice of choice.

“As I told Captain Gregson and Ms Watson, Mr Holmes here may experience some cognitive difficulties, when- or if- he wakes up, ” The doctor had said, standing by his bedside. Joan, Marcus and Gregson had been there too. It was difficult, seeing the world anew, only able to hear and smell, starved of touch that wasn’t clinical and professional. “, but it’s difficult to tell. He’s sustained a great deal of damage to his brain stem, which could result in a number of different… complications.”

“So,” Marcus’ voice had shook, and Sherlock’s stomach had twisted, guilt pumping through his veins. The beeping continued in its steady rhythm, unchanged. “Is that why is he’s still…?”

“It’s very difficult to tell. A person’s brain is an intensely complicated, and different people react in different ways. It’s very likely-”

“How long? Until he wakes up?”

“Marcus.” Joan gently cautioned him.

“I wanna know.” Marcus was on the brink of crying, Sherlock knew just by listening. “How long will we have to wait?”

“There’s simply no way of knowing.”

Sherlock could feel Marcus’ anger, then, hear it in his sharp intake of breath, the squeak of wheels as he left the room as quickly as he could. He could empathise. He was scared, by his body, by his mind. There was something wrong with him, and he couldn’t do a thing to help himself.

The machines around him were keeping him alive. Yet he wasn’t dead.

He considered the doctor’s words; damage to his brain stem. It would make sense. Most patients suffering Locked-In Syndrome had suffered damage to the pons, which was located on the brain stem- explanation aside, the knowledge did nothing to help him feel better about the situation.

Because there was no cure.

 

Sherlock’s father did eventually visit, contrary to his nature as a person and as a father.

At first, he was just footsteps, faltering in the doorway, stopping. Advancing, then, and coming to a halt at Sherlock’s bedside. Slow, wary steps. Sherlock had no idea who was in the room.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Came the sighed greeting, and Sherlock was shocked. He sounded… upset. And disappointed. But Sherlock had come to expect the latter.

Sherlock had ample time to ponder this, as his father said nothing else the entire time he was there. He just stood, looking. Sherlock wondered what he looked like. The painkillers kept him from feeling anything too painful, but he could feel the stitches in his skin, and knew he was terribly injured. He knew he was bruised, disfigured, unrecognisable.

He wondered how his father felt about this. Whether the sight of his son, helpless and on his deathbed, truly hurt him. Sherlock rather enjoyed the possibility that it did.

Mr Holmes continued to stand there, silent, and Sherlock felt uncomfortable, being stared at so blatantly, unable to react. It was a feeling he was getting used to, trapped as he was.

Then, his father left.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

JOAN

 

There were days when it almost, almost, felt normal. When she could have a coffee, a latte with two sugars like she preferred now, and somehow summon strength from that warmth and caffeine. She said hello to the nurses and doctors, made conversation, chatted about anything and nothing in particular. Maybe it was denial, maybe it was just her way of coping- but, either way, pretending or not, this meant she could sit at his bedside and look at him without needing to cry.

She just watched him, on these days. Sometimes she’d make conversation, but that was even harder, speaking without hope of any reply. A one-sided discussion.

She sat, and remembered. Remembered their early days. All they’d been through. The slow revealing of themselves to each other, the intricacies of their relationship, Sherlock’s past, her past, clashing and colliding and entwining with a respect and an intimacy she knew she’d never find anywhere else.

It was comforting. Remembering not what they’d had, but what they still had. Thinking of it in the present tense.

Somehow, even when she felt he was already gone, she was comforted by those memories. He’d lived a good life, in the end, and she genuinely believed he’d reached a happier place before his death.

Not that he was dead. Yet. She needed to keep reminding herself of that.

Today was a good day.

She’d run into Natalia Blake, a surgeon she’d worked with years ago, down the hall. They’d had a great talk, until Natalia realised Joan was there for Sherlock Holmes- the story was all over the news, and Joan had wanted to slap her when the pity and sympathy filled her eyes. But Natalia was a seasoned surgeon, and she knew better than to labour the point, so she brightened her expression and moved onto a barely related topic. The ease with which she did it made Joan’s chest feel lighter. The feeling had carried her here, to her chair- her and Marcus’ chair, she thought. They were both drawn here, irresistibly. Magnetism. Obligation. Sentiment.

She adjusted her grip on her empty cardboard coffee cup, loosening her fingers.

She had to convince herself everything would be alright.

Somehow.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY DO I DO THIS TO MY POOR CHARACTERS I'M SO MEAN DAMNIT


	6. Chapter 6

SHERLOCK

 

She came for him.

He’d known she would, and he shouldn’t have been shocked by it. But he was, and he lay there, terrified beyond comprehension, as Moriarty stood by his bedside and looked down on him. He was helpless.

“The police are closing in on Tyler Grant.” She said, eventually, slowly. “But I’ll get there first. He’ll die, and it will be slow. The things I will do to him…” She chuckled. “…I’m sure you’d be horrified if you knew.”

The excited, venomous, sadistic enthusiasm in her voice had icy fear pumping through his veins. Tyler Grant, apparently the man who’d done this- Sherlock didn’t hate him, in that moment. He didn’t wish Moriarty’s fury on anyone.

She leaned down, soft and sweet perfume contradicting her very nature. Her hair touched his arm.

“Do wake up, darling. I’m not done with you yet.”

His heartbeat increased by increments, beating faster- she paused, inhaling quietly.

“Can you hear me?”

He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move.

She waited, listened, still as a lion. He waited for her to attack.

He wasn’t sure what conclusion she drew, but she pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then was gone, as quickly as she’d arrived. From the dark. Invisible.

He was glad for the tube down his throat, because he would’ve found breathing difficult otherwise. He didn’t want her. He didn’t feel any desire for her body, for her poisonous intellect and dangerous smile. He wanted Joan and Marcus and Gregson, the security and homeliness of the life he’d made in New York.

He wanted Marcus’ strong hands, caring nature and unyielding sense of right and wrong.

He wanted to be safe.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

JOAN

 

Time passed.

Her strength, at first real, had become false. A mask. A façade.

She could no longer find comfort in conversation. She was no longer content to sit at Sherlock’s bedside and reminisce on days gone by. She was slipping, fracturing, breaking into tiny pieces.

The only thing that held her together was the hope that, maybe, Sherlock would wake up.

She felt like a battle-wearied weapon. She had to be constantly fighting- fighting to not cry, fighting to stay awake when she hadn’t slept properly since Gregson had turned up on the brownstone doorstep that night, fighting to smile when Marcus needed her to, fighting screams when Sherlock was unresponsive, unmoving, dead to her every word.

The Black Box Bomber, as the tabloids and newspapers had taken to calling him, was found in a car with all the evidence to convict him. He had been tortured extensively, burned with acid and fire, all his teeth pulled out, almost every bone broken with deliberate precision, holes drilled into his head- all while he was still alive, and probably still conscious. Joan scrolled through the pictures on news headlines online, feeling hollow and scared, the brownstone suddenly huge and empty and silent. It didn’t make her feel better. It made her feel sick.

She went to the door, like she’d known what was coming, and found a letter there. Her hands shook as she read it.

 

_My dearest Watson,_

_I could never let him hurt Sherlock and go unpunished. Take comfort in knowing that the pain you are experiencing now is nothing to what I caused Tyler Grant. Rest assured, he suffered for what he did. Sleep well at night, my love, and know that I will watch over Sherlock until he is healed._

_Yours, always,_

_Jamie Moriarty._

 

Joan threw up in the kitchen sink and fell to her knees, the letter lying a foot from where she sat. She stared at it until the taste in her mouth startled her into life again.

The reasonable part of her, the part that usually reigned, told her that this was evidence, that it should be taken to Gregson and be used as explanation for the mutilation and torture of a human being. To do anything else with the letter, she knew, was illegal and immoral. She would be burying evidence.

She burned it, and told no one.

 

 

 

GREGSON

 

Gregson stared down at the body.

One month since the bombing- they had his identity now, his record, his whole life story. Tyler Grant. Introverted. Juvie. Multiple counts of stalking, bomb-making, hacking, and the list went on and on, through multiple name-changes and different countries; Robert Curry, Terry Delgado, Thomas Smitheran, Eric Edwards; America, Australia, Canada, France, Italy. An intelligent psychopath since childhood. He had a slim, bony frame, a thin face, dirty black hair. His skin was lumpy and malformed, bumpy with bruises and cuts and needle marks. The coroner reported almost every bone to be harshly broken, and other torture administered with meticulousness and experience- particular attention having being paid to his skull. Pieces of his brain were missing, removed with surgical precision. The physical damage was extreme.

Gregson had seen bodies, in the past, which horrified him, made him sick with a revulsion and a fear that ran deeper than any other emotion. Bodies with injuries like these, injuries that were horrific and inhumane and demonically wrong. He had seen children with tiny, twisted bodies, stuffed into suitcases- he’d seen men and women rotted in their apartments, the smell alerting neighbours only when it was beyond too late. It had kept him awake. Disturbed him beyond measure. Ruined his marriage.

The thing that disturbed him most about this? The fact that this felt like justice.

Enjoyment, raw and shocking, flared inside him, and was immediately swallowed by horror. He was a policeman. He couldn’t feel like this. He couldn’t want revenge this badly.

He took a breath. Smelled the clinical chemical scent of the morgue, tried his hardest to ignore the lingering stench of death. He was sure he knew who’d done this. There had been nearly a dozen car bombings before this, seemingly random attacks littered throughout New York, and not one word from or about the bomber himself. Until now. Until the bombing of Sherlock and Marcus.

It had to be Moriarty.

He’d checked, but there’d been no word on her, absolutely no clue regarding her whereabouts.

He remembered looking at her, at the way she interacted with Sherlock, at the way Sherlock had been hurt by her; he had been uncomfortable, because usually the role was reversed. Usually it was a man, possessing and controlling a woman or a girl, manipulating them into a position of helplessness. She had put on a façade of vulnerability, letting Sherlock care for her, mourn her, nurse her and love her. All so she could break him, twist him, destroy him, shape him into a new being, and revel in the knowledge that he would always need her.

But she also needed him. Gregson was sure of that. It was her weakness, but- because of her nature- also her most poisonous trait. She was violent in protecting what she wanted, even if all she wanted to do was inflict anguish upon her possessions- it wasn’t a stretch to imagine she’d done this as an act of vengeance for Sherlock’s comatose state, especially given what she’d had done to Elena March, following the attempt on Joan’s life.

Only, this wouldn’t have been an ordered assassination, a death by someone else’s hand. No. She’d had found him herself, and tortured him at her leisure.

Gregson’s eyes roamed Tyler Grant’s face. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. They’d already looked over the body, already read the coroner’s report.

He was almost certain that Joan had been contacted by Moriarty. It wouldn’t have been the first time; they’d taken previous letters into evidence. Which meant Joan had known Moriarty had done this, and still had not come forward. And yet he hadn’t approached her about it- sure, the NYPD and the FBI had interviewed all family members and friends of the victims and established alibis, but he hadn’t asked her, as a friend and as her Captain, whether she knew something.

Maybe he was afraid of the answer. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Or- more likely- he didn’t want to drag Joan deeper down into the depths of this. He knew her. He knew what she was like. And he felt, irrationally enough, that he could trust her judgement. Which was a bullshit call to make, he knew; she was traumatised, and probably not thinking straight. Which was also half the reason he wanted to leave her alone.

He rubbed both hands over his face, took a deep breath. He was feeling a bit traumatised too, of late.

 

***

 

This was a bad idea. He knew that.

But he lifted his hand to Marcus’ door anyway, and knocked. Because, if the one month anniversary was making him feel this bad, he was certain Marcus was feeling worse. He’d already tried to talk to Joan, but leaving phone messages just weren’t going to cut it, this time. Besides, Marcus was more than just a friend- he was a detective. He was Gregson’s best. And he owed him this.

The door remained closed.

He knocked again.

And waited. He kept waiting, burying his hands in his pockets, looking around. This was a nice neighbourhood. Marcus had worked hard to get here, and even harder to stay here. He’d clawed his way up from poverty, abuse and nightly beatings.

Gregson looked back at the wooden door and wondered whether Marcus was on the other side of it, listening, or whether he was lying in bed, and how long he’d been lying there.

He realised he wasn’t going to get an answer. His throat went tight.

“Marcus, listen…”

What was he going to say? 

_I'm sorry that this happened. I’m sorry that your future in the police force has, once again, been threatened. I’m sorry that I listened to the recording of the bombing, and I’m sorry that I know. I know how you feel about him. I know how he felt about you._

“…Call, alright, Marcus?” He said it quietly. “I promise I’ll pick up.”

There was no reply.

Gregson walked away.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

MARCUS

 

Three months passed.

He’d done this before- the physiotherapy, the counselling, the siege of Facebook messages from colleagues, the sleepless nights and creeping hopelessness whenever he looked down. Last time, it had been his hand, his arm. Now it was his legs.

He hated the wheelchair. Wheelchairs were for old people, for dying children, for hospitals and aged care facilities. He hated being in it, he hated how difficult life was when you had to navigate it on fucking wheels. Even eating meals was damn near impossible.

Joan helped, when she could, in any way she could while still keeping a distance between them. It wasn’t for his sake, this time. It was for hers.

He tried to talk to her about it, but the truth was that he didn’t really want to- he hadn’t told anyone how he felt about Sherlock, that he’d had feelings for him for a long time now, that he still dreamed about him, but now it was dreams of blood and screeching metal and explosions. He knew that voicing it would make it real. Would break the spell and send the world crashing down upon him. He didn’t need to see Gregson and Joan’s heartbroken faces, learning that this was a tragedy of truly Shakespearean fucking proportions. He was angry. He was so angry.

He learned to walk again, on legs made weak by lack of use and shattered bone, and once he knew how to walk, he stood in front of boxing bags and hit them, pounded them, until he was crying and he couldn’t move his arms. He ended up on the floor, every time, legs too weak to hold him up, shins and kneecaps held together by metal pins. Miserable. Pathetic. He hated it all.

For the first month or so, he visited Sherlock’s hospital room almost constantly, there for days at a time, only leaving when he had physiotherapy appointments or visiting hours were over. After that, he started to schedule visits, in an attempt to pull his life back into order. It didn’t work, but at least the nurses weren’t kicking him out every night.

He stopped seeing people. Colleagues, friends, everyone. The only exceptions were Joan, and occasionally Gregson. He didn’t need anyone’s pity. He didn’t want to see the look in their eyes. He’d never had a particularly busy or extravagant sex life, but now it was practically non-existent. He went out for a drink one night, and saw a man- well dressed, alone, a nice haircut- who looked like Sherlock, and went home with him. The man, whose name Marcus forgot instantly, touched the scars on his legs but didn’t ask where they came from, and Marcus was grateful for that.

Afterwards, the stranger kissed him on the mouth, and Marcus wanted to be sick. He left, and didn’t go out for another drink again.

The man, in retrospect, hadn’t looked like Sherlock at all.

 

 

 

 

SHERLOCK

 

They took the cast off his arm, and it felt cold- as cold as his head did, now that it was shaved so that they could keep his stitches clean. He had been taking particular notice of the fifty stitches along his chest. The painkillers kept any real soreness away, but he could feel the pulling of his skin whenever he inhaled- whenever the machine inhaled for him, rather- and it was enough to drive him mad. He was grateful for Joan, however, who came in every so often and shaved his face. It was unspeakably relieving. He had bed sores, however, which itched like festering wounds; he’d heard the nurses and doctors muttering among themselves about needing to move him more. He wished they’d stop talking about it and just do it.

It was the visits that kept him sane, in his prison, in his useless body. People he’d not seen for years, or people he’d assumed had little to no interest in him. He’d obviously underestimated the effect he had on these strangers’ lives, because they all said different versions of the same thing-  that he was a brilliant man, that he didn’t deserve this.

It was quite a compliment.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

MARCUS

 

Routine was getting easier.

He woke at eight every morning, had breakfast, did his physiotherapy, and by then it was nearing eleven o’clock- he’d fix himself lunch, go to Sherlock’s bedside, stay until around four, and then do some grocery shopping and go find something for to make for dinner. There were small differences. Sometimes he ate out. Sometimes he didn’t go to the hospital. But this was his life now, buoyed financially by compensation payments and years of hard work, and he accepted it with determination. He would not go under.

He would survive this.

Suicide was, however, on his mind. When he thought of how long this would go on, how many more months he could live like this, and months turned to years, the possibility hovered on the edge of his every decision. As he cooked dinner, he’d wonder, would he use this knife to end it? He’d had to turn in his gun, but he could find one, buy one in any city- was that how he wanted to die? Brains splattered on the wall, collapsed forward onto his kitchen bench, found by his colleagues, laid out in the morgue he’d visited so many times? He thought about doing it with medication, maybe saying he wasn’t sleeping, stocking up on pills until he had enough to end it. That was when the line of thought would stop. He couldn’t kill himself with an overdose. Sherlock would never forgive him.

So, he continued.

 

***

 

One morning, he woke- on his back, the only way he could stand to sleep now- and someone was knocking on his door. It was such a rare occurrence that he stared at the ceiling and waited for it to stop. He assumed he was imagining it.

Then it occurred to him. Someone might be coming to tell him Sherlock was awake.

He lurched out of bed, threw on a dressing gown over his underwear, and limped as fast as he could to the door. When he pulled it open, Gregson was standing there, with wide eyes and a shocked expression.

“Is it him?” He hastily tied up his dressing down, suddenly self-conscious. He tried not to think of the scars on his legs. “Is it Sherlock? Is he awake?”

Gregson opened and closed his mouth, blinked once. “Uh. No, I just…”

Marcus’ heart sank. “Oh.”

“It’s been four months, Marcus. I thought you might need some…”

“…help?” He felt his lip curl. He didn’t want this. To be standing in his dressing gown, pathetic, while a man he respected stood in front of him.

Gregson’s face fell, and his eyes softened in the corners, in the way that seemed fatherly, caring. Marcus hated it.

“Company. I thought you might need some company.”

“No.”

It was a lie. They both knew it. But Gregson nodded anyway, sad, and sighed.

“Alright. Call me, if you want. Okay?”

Marcus nodded. “Sure.”

Another lie. He wouldn't call, he wouldn't even text, and he sure as hell would not set foot in the precinct when he looked like a cripple.

Marcus closed the door, and leaned against it, put his head in his hands.

He tried not to feel like he’d just made a very big mistake.

 

 

 

 

SHERLOCK

 

Sherlock was eternally grateful for Marcus and Joan’s routines.

Joan would come in the evenings, after dinner. She’d stay longer on weekends. Marcus came after lunch and stayed until into the afternoon. Occasionally, they’d break routine, and come to see him at the same time. They talked about things, commonplace events and happenings- and Sherlock had never before been more in love with the tedium of the everyday.

He measured his life through them, and wondered how much honey his bees were producing. He hoped dear Watson was looking after them- he’d shown her how to, and she knew the bees had always mattered to him.

He wondered if Marcus liked honey.

Weeks and days waxed and waned, and time became a liquid concept as he lost track- they operated on him, making him tired and sore, and he didn’t know how long he slept for afterwards. They usually refrained from touching his brain, however, because they couldn’t identify exactly what was keeping him in a coma, so there was nothing to operate on. And- though he wasn’t even technically in a coma- Sherlock was very, very thankful for this.

His bandages fell off as time passed, stitches removed, his neck brace disappearing. It had reached the point where he felt almost normal, were it not for his immobility and the sandpaper roughness of his throat, the plastic resting against his tongue, reaching deep down his oesophagus. The stitches across his chest were removed, leaving behind a hard, raised scar.

His brain had adjusted, recalculating the world, seeing it anew. He’d learned to track Marcus’ progress in physiotherapy, learned to recognise when he was in pain and limping, when he needed a cane to walk, when he used crutches. He drew the conclusion that Marcus was working extremely hard, and healing very well.

It gave him a peace of mind he couldn’t find in his own progress.

 

***

 

On this particular day, Sherlock had been visited by a distraught Harlan. The maths prodigy didn’t come often, but when he did, Sherlock wished he wouldn’t. Harlan’s attachment to him had always been apparent, and he was only torturing himself by coming to the hospital. There was nothing Sherlock could do, so he just lay there as Harlan cried. It was a truly uncomfortable experience. He preferred it when Ms Hudson visited. She had boundless energy and enthusiasm, and complained about her lovers with a vitriol and vitality Sherlock found both entertaining and endearing.

Later, after Harlan, Marcus visited.

“A’ight.” Marcus began, sitting down. “I brought you a newspaper. Figure you usually liked to know what was goin’ on in the world, so… if you can hear me… I reckon you’d want to have an idea of what’s happenin’.” He paused. “It’s been four months since the bombing. It’s Tuesday. I’m doin’ okay. Sleepin’ a bit better, lately. Things’re… better. Wish you’d wake up, but,” Marcus sighed. “, at least you’re alive.”

Sherlock felt a pull in his gut, as he always did, when Marcus said such things. He’d never wanted anything more than he wanted control over his body.

Marcus read him the entire paper, cover to cover, and Sherlock listened intently. Apparently the world was just as boring as always. It was more the rise and fall of Marcus’ voice he paid attention to. Every word mattered. He analysed every syllable, trying to imagine Marcus’ expression, trying to gauge his emotions. Marcus had been angry, in the beginning, and he still was- but it was more bitter, now. Mournful.

“…and the mother of two is hoping that her life will be radically improved by the council’s new measures.” Marcus closed the newspaper, folding it in half and dropping it on the ground beside him. “There, done. What else, uh… Syria is causing problems lately. Iraq’s up in arms- though, not literally, thank god. Ireland’s approved gay marriage.” He fell silent, and there was a stretch of nothing before he sighed loudly. “Christ, you’d probably be bored shitless by all this.”

 _No_ , Sherlock wanted to beg. _No, keep talking. Please keep talking._

Silence.

Eventually, Marcus drew in a sharp breath. He took Sherlock’s hand in his own, folding his fingers around Sherlock’s knuckles, palms pressing, a thumb stroking his wrist. Warm. Safe.

“I keep thinkin’…” Marcus whispered. His voice was unsteady. “…that, even if you wake up, you’ll… forget. What happened, at the crash, and I… I don’t want you to forget. What you said to me, what I said to you. I want…” His breath hitched, and Sherlock’s chest tightened. “…I want… I want what we could’ve had. I never had the guts to say it, but… you’re perfect. You’re everythin’ I want. I know everyone sees your genius, but I know there’s so much more t’you than that, and I- I want it all. God, I- Your _everythin_ ’, Sherlock, I… I’d give anythin’, if you’d just… just wake up, _please_ -”

 _I want to,_ Sherlock screamed silently, trying to will his lips to move. _I want to wake up. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-_

“I miss you so much.” Marcus took another breath, steadying his voice, as if he hadn’t just been crying, as if Sherlock’s hand wasn’t burning with tear drops. “Christ, you’re right in front of me, but… I miss you so much.” One of Marcus’ hands rose, a thumb stroking along his hairline tenderly. “Can you wake up for me?”

Silence stretched on, and Sherlock fought every second, just trying to move his hand, just one finger, hyper aware of Marcus’ hand around his. If he could move, even a little, Marcus would know he was awake, he’d know he was there-

But Marcus sighed shakily, and moved away. His hand wandered down Sherlock’s shoulder, stroking the back of his arm. Sherlock heard a quiet, sad chuckle.

“Y’know, I was always gonna ask you what all these tattoos meant. You’ve got so many.” His fingers wandered over the heavy script on Sherlock’s forearm, and the gentleness of his touch made Sherlock want to cry, when he thought of all the reasons he’d talked himself out of confessing to Marcus. They worked together. Marcus was in the closet. Sherlock didn’t do monogamous relationships. Marcus had internalised homophobia, borne of his father’s violent prejudice. Sherlock was unsure whether Marcus could fulfil his more outlandish sexual needs.

So many reasons, and none of them meant anything anymore.

“Joan once told me you tattoo yourself.” Marcus laughed, and Sherlock truly could not imagine a more gruesome torture; Marcus was right next to him, crying, holding his hand, and Sherlock could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Of course you tattoo yourself. Crazy bastard.”

Sherlock couldn’t even bring himself to be insulted.

“So,” Marcus took another slow, shaking breath. “You’ll tell me what they mean, yeah? When you wake up.” He paused, and then Sherlock felt a soft, barely-there touch of lips on the back of his hand. An exhale, ghosting over his skin.

Then he was gone.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

SHERLOCK

 

Sherlock woke up one morning- afternoon? Day? Night? He had no idea- to find that something was different. The tube down his throat was gone, replaced by a small oxygen mask over his face. He, though relieved, worried about how much time had passed since he’d last been awake. Had they operated on him? How many more days had it been? A week? More?

He was trying to remember something- anything-, when the door to his room opened. Several people entered.

“Mr Holmes’ last brain scan caused us to take another look at which areas of his brain were active. He is now- as you can see- able to breathe for himself. His heartbeat, though still being monitored by us, is not being controlled by us. He is now keeping himself alive.”

“Is this… Does this mean he’s getting better…?” Marcus seemed afraid to dare ask.

“It could do, yes.”

“Is it reasonable to believe he may regain consciousness?” Joan’s voice was a façade; the detached professionalism of a surgeon. Sherlock’s heart grew heavier as he heard it.

“There’s no telling, and I’m optimistic only with caution- this development makes it more likely he may regain consciousness.”

“But not certain.” Gregson sighed.

“I’m afraid so. He is not, technically, in a coma anymore.”

“What’re you saying?” Marcus demanded. “So why is he-”

“His upper brain has largely healed from the trauma it underwent. His lower brain and brainstem is still damaged, but the lesions in his brain stem have healed remarkably well.”

“But he’s not in a coma?”

“No,” The doctor hesitated. “It would be more accurate to say he’s in… a persistent vegetative state.”

Silence fell.

“A vegetative state.” Marcus repeated flatly.

“Marcus-” Gregson began, but there were sharp footsteps, and Marcus was gone.

 

 

 

MARCUS

 

He wanted to drink.

Not just one drink. He wanted to knock himself unconscious, pour alcohol and toxins down his throat until he couldn’t taste anything at all, couldn’t think anything at all, couldn’t hear anything at all- especially not the endless chanting inside his head, ‘ _vegetative state, vegetative state, vegetative state, vegetative state,_ ’, sickening and horrifying and wrong, wrong, _wrong_ -

He wanted to drown himself, and never wake up. But he knew that, once he’d started, he’d never be able to stop, so he did something else instead. He picked up the phone, and called Andre. He’d been ignoring him for a month or so now, maybe more- he couldn’t say why he chose to call Andre, of all people. They’d never been close. Always fighting, always bitching, a chasm of experience and opinion and violence separating them for years now.

Maybe he just wanted to believe they could behave like adults for once.

 _“Hey, man!”_ Andre’s excitement was more than obvious, and Marcus nearly felt guilty for not calling him before now. _“What’s up?”_

“I need,” He wasn’t sure what he needed. “Could we have a drink? Not alcohol. A coffee or something. I just… I got some bad news, and I…”

Andre was silent for a second. _“Sure, Marcus, sure. You remember that café, The Spot? Otis owns it, you remember brother Otis? He’s cleaned up real good now, found God, stopped all that bad behaviour.”_

Otis. A childhood friend, done time for theft and dealing and a long list of other offences- close with Andre but not with Marcus. Not for a long time.

But Marcus couldn’t bring himself to give a shit right now.

“Yeah, sounds good.”

_“You know where it is?”_

“Yeah. See you there, Andre.”

 

If Marcus didn’t know Otis as well as he did, he really would think the café was clean. Otis stood behind the counter, serving and cleaning and conversing, wearing a knit jumper and a silver cross. He smiled when they came in, and Marcus managed one in return- he just hoped Andre was right about Otis, and his brother wasn’t stupid to take an ex-cop to a dirty establishment and hope he wouldn’t notice.

They took a seat at a booth, by a window. Marcus was just glad that the place was clean in the literal sense. Andre wasn’t known for frequenting the best parts of town.

They ordered coffee. Andre must’ve sensed he wasn’t ready to talk yet, so he went on for a while about his job and his parole, the new girl he was seeing, his apartment and the repairs it needed. The small talk lasted about fifteen minutes, Marcus contributing very little to the conversation, before they ordered another set of coffees and sat in silence for a while.

“So,” Andre began slowly. Marcus heard the reluctance in his voice and dreaded whatever would come next. “, how you doin’?”

Marcus watched people pass by the window. “Fine.”

“Bullshit, Marcus. You said on the phone that you just got some bad news.”

“Maybe I just wanna pretend I’m okay, a’ight?” Marcus tried to keep his voice low; the place was sparely occupied, but there were enough people that they’d notice if he got upset. He was regretting coming here at all. “Maybe I’m just sick of everyone lookin’ at me like you’re lookin’ at me now.”

Andre was staring at him, not speaking, and Marcus returned his gaze angrily. He shouldn’t have come. Meeting with Andre always guaranteed arguments. Any brotherly affection they might’ve shared was buried under years of abuse, from their father and their community, twisting Andre’s morals and Marcus’ trust. Too much between them.

“Can I meet him? This Sherlock guy?”

“Why?” Marcus asked flatly. He didn’t want Andre anywhere near Sherlock. His pity would increase tenfold, and for what? There was nothing anyone could do. As far as he was concerned, everyone could take their pity and stick it up their ass. “S’not like he can talk back.”

Andre’s jaw pulsed with a clench of muscle. “’Cause it’s important to you.”

“If you’re worried ‘bout what’s important to me, stop talkin’ ‘bout him, and let’s just either order lunch or get outta here, okay?”

There were a few more seconds of silence. Marcus picked up a menu from the table, ignoring the glances from a few other patrons. He was so angry. He was so, so fucking angry. This wasn’t Andre’s fault, he knew that, he knew he was being an asshole, but he couldn’t help it.

“No, Marcus.” Andre said, eventually, voice hard. “I know what this is about.”

Marcus closed his eyes. He was so tired. “What, Andre.”

“Dad.”

Marcus opened his eyes. They were both still; this was territory that neither of them wanted to intrude into.

“I don’t want to talk about dad.”

“You never do,” Andre sat forward, pointing at him, elbow resting on the table. “But it’s ‘bout time that you did, hear?”

Marcus held his gaze. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to just get up and leave, or reach over the table and hit Andre across the face. He’d never been a violent man. He’d been on the receiving end of fury like this too many times as a child and a young man, and feeling it himself made him feel ill. He didn’t like who he was becoming in Sherlock’s absence.

“I remember that day.” Andre withdrew his hand, folding his arms on the table, fingers clenched. He looked down, and the quake in his voice was unmistakable. “The day he took us both to the ICU, made me lie and say you broke your arm fallin’ of my bike. I saw what he did to you. I saw what really happened.”

Marcus swallowed thickly. He remembered that day too. He doubted he’d ever forget.

“He was a cruel motherfucker, Marcus, and he’s the reason you tried to make it work with women all these years. ‘Cause that bastard called you a,” Andre hesitated, shaking his head a little, hands clenching tighter, “, a faggot, and he told you that you was wrong for being exactly who you were s’posed to be. Well, guess what, Marcus,” He looked up now, face torn, eyebrows drawn together in a desperate plea for Marcus to listen, to understand, to accept. “, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with you. And if you’re lettin’ dad’s ghost stop you from admittin’ that you love Mr Holmes, you’re a fuckin’ moron. A’ight? You gotta move on, man.”

Andre fell silent, looking to Marcus to respond.

Marcus didn’t know what to say.

He had no idea Andre had seen him so clearly, had known him so well. Part of him wondered how much of Andre lived in the shadow of their father as well, and wondered whether they could really make this work, could really move past everything and repair all the damage that had been done.

Then the other part of him remembered what Andre had become after their father had died. The drugs, the dealing, the dishonesty and the stealing.

Then he remembered Andre, high on cocaine, hitting their mother across the face when she tried to stop him leaving to sell her wedding ring.

And he realised they could never move past what had happened between them.

“Move on?” He asked dully, injecting as much apathy as he could into his tone. “To what?” He leaned forward, turning his voice into a hiss; “He’s in a fucking coma.”

Despair filled Andre’s face.

Marcus stood, stepped out of the booth, and left the café.

 

Marcus got in the car and drove.

He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t much care- all he wanted to do was get away from Andre. He knew his brother meant well, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that any more, not since remembering that night when his brother- for a horrifying moment- had turned into their father. He also remembered how Andre had stood there, high out of his mind, and stared, horror and shame filling his features. He remembered that Andre had felt guilt.

At least that was something.

Marcus drove and drove. He didn’t know where he was going. He checked his phone, saw a message from Andre, full of apologies, and a missed call from Joan. He continued driving until he found a spot where he could make a U-Turn, and then increased his speed back in the direction of the brownstone.

As much as he wanted everyone to leave him alone, to stop wanting him to feel better, to stop wanting to help, there was something he needed to do.

Because this wasn’t all about him.

 

 

JOAN

 

She stared at her phone screen.

She was lying in the spare bedroom, curled on her side. The doors were closed, and the room was without windows- a small cage, safe and warm and secure.  She knew what she was doing. She was hiding. She couldn’t even stand her bedroom anymore. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she’d slept there comfortably for so long, while everything was still okay- maybe Sherlock would wake up, and she could go back to that bed and sleep happily. Until that happened, she wouldn’t contaminate that space with this misery, this unhappiness.

Tears made her face hot, made her eyes itchy. She wanted to cry silently, hold back all the ugly noises, swallow them before they could choke her.

For a few minutes, she succeeded.

Eventually, however, the sobs rose to the surface, and she was crying, properly crying. Her stomach cramped, and she heard herself wailing and hiccupping, and she hated it. She wanted to be strong. She needed to be strong.

“Joan?”

She sniffed, going still with fear, before she realised it was Marcus’ voice.

“I’m sorry,” He said after a while, and his voice was uneven too. “The door was open, and I… Christ, Joan, I… I’ve been so fuckin’ selfish, I never should’ve let you deal with this alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She wiped her eyes with her sleeves pulled up over her fingers, a quiet sob making its way past her lips. She’d kept a distance between her and Marcus, and she tried to speak up, tried to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, it was her choice- they were both grieving, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. None of this was. There was no one to blame any more.

But she couldn’t summon the words.

The door to the spare bedroom opened, and she wished Marcus would leave, because she knew she was a mess, and she knew he’d look at her differently after this. That he’d pity her.

But then she looked up, saw tear tracks on his cheeks, and realised he was the same as her.

The same grief.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hesitant. She sat up, curled next to him, let him pull her into a hug. He didn’t tell her it was okay. He didn’t offer comforting words. He didn’t talk about the future or about the past.

He cried.

They cried. Together. It was messy and loud, and the most honest she’d ever felt.

By the time they were both finished, they were leaned against the headboard of the bed, dry and sore and weak, and she felt lighter than she had in months. Her arms wrapped around Marcus, his arms wrapped around her.

They didn’t talk, because reassurances meant nothing.

They just sat there.

 

 

 

GREGSON

 

His house seemed so much quieter now.

And it was his house, not their house, not the house filled with pictures of his children, not the house where his wife slept.

He considered the bottle of vodka, unopened, on the table in front of him. It’d been a long day, started off with the visit to the hospital, only worsening after that. Marcus was slipping away. Joan wasn’t nearly as strong as she pretended to be. And he seemed unable to do anything right. He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t help either of them. He couldn’t even make the woman he loved happy.

And now he was sitting, alone, at his dining table, tie undone, staring at a bottle of vodka. A man past middle age, in the throes of divorce proceedings, no friends who weren’t also colleagues, and useless to save three good people from fates that seemed increasingly hopeless.

He reached for the bottle. No reason not to.

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

SHERLOCK

 

Marcus hadn’t visited for two days. Neither had Joan. He’d thought, since his progress from life support to a breathing mask, that their faith in him would be restored. But their absence grated at him, making him sick with nervousness. He didn’t know why they were staying away, or how long they would remain gone.

When familiar footsteps finally reached his ears, he could’ve fainted from relief.

Joan and Marcus sat together. They had brought coffee.

“I hope he wakes up.” Marcus said quietly. “Goes without sayin’, I s’pose. But… I really hope this all ends well.”

He spoke the words as if he knew there was no hope for that at all. Joan took a slow breath.

“All we can do is stay strong.” She added quietly. There was the sound a quiet movement, a jangle of a bracelet, and Sherlock imagined her taking Marcus’ hand. He hoped they were happier, united in this difficult time. He wondered if they were sleeping together. He wasn’t upset by the idea. If it would help them, the two most important people in his life, then he wished them all the best. He was beginning to accept he may never regain control over his limbs.

All he wanted was for them to be happy.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

MARCUS

 

Another month passed- it had been six months since the bombing, now. Half a year.

He’d have been lying if he said things were getting easier, but at least now he didn’t want to kill himself, or drink himself into oblivion. He’d started to tolerate the situation; he’d never lose the hope of Sherlock waking up, but for now he had to live with the alternative, and accepting that brought a small amount of relief into his life. Into their lives.

He spent a lot of his time with Joan.

They visited Sherlock together, sometimes had dinner together, sometimes had coffee together. They didn’t cry in front of one another, any more, not since the last time they had. Joan was a strong woman- stronger, he knew, than he himself was. She was rebuilding herself, quietly and steadily. He was just content to struggle on as he was. He found comfort in reading Sherlock newspapers, or books- he remembered Sherlock elaborately describing how much he hated fiction, so he generally stuck to the newspapers.

He and Joan didn’t have sex, but were more physical than normal friends. Hugging. Holding hands. Sitting together, a head on a shoulder, a hand on a knee. Anyone else might’ve thought they were a couple- they certainly weren’t siblings. But it wasn’t sexual, it was just comforting- and, while Marcus was fully aware that they were both grown adults, he felt like this was innocent, like the exchanges between children when they reassured each other. It was good, to have something so simple, so undefined. Something safe.

Marcus tried to start seeing someone, a man named Daniel he’d been sleeping with before the bombing. Daniel was perfect- blonde curls, blue eyes, a sharp face, a tall built frame. He could’ve had anyone he wanted, and the fact he wanted Marcus was a compliment enough.

They spent a night together, Daniel gasping under him, kisses heated but hurried- Marcus had wanted to escape the entire time. He felt guilty. As if he were betraying Sherlock. He lifted Daniel’s long, pale legs up around his waist, tried to loose himself in this beautiful man’s body, but only succeeded in getting Daniel off; he couldn’t come.

Afterwards, they lay side-by-side, not touching. Daniel was breathing hard.

“That felt rushed,” He admitted. “You’ve changed, Marcus.”

Marcus knew that.

 

 

 

SHERLOCK

 

“The Mayor’s got a new advertising campaign approved… Police are tacking crime with new innovation- what, like old fashioned hard work? Idiots. Um… Masterchef… Biggest Loser… God, why did I buy this shit? Sorry, Sherlock.” Marcus sighed. “I’ll go back to our usual newspaper. Uh…”

And that what when it happened.

Sherlock had been listening to Marcus, amused by his cynicism and rejection of popular media, when he moved his hand.

It was just his fingers. Just a twitch. But his heart soared, and he heard the monitor reflect his glee. Fireworks went off inside him. Bliss. Euphoria. Elation. He could _move_.

Marcus had gone silent. Listening to the beeping.

Then, the newspaper hit the floor.

“Oh my god.” Marcus whispered. He reached forward and took Sherlock’s hand- carefully, gingerly, as if holding glass. “You- You’re moving, Christ. Uh- Jesus fuck, Sherlock-” He swallowed hard. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

Sherlock tried, with all his might, and for several seconds, nothing happened. Then, he managed to tighten his fingers, gripping Marcus’ hand with all the strength of a newborn.

“Oh shit.” Marcus breathed. “Shit, shit, shit. You’re awake. Oh, thank god-” There were tears then, but Marcus was laughing hysterically, a smile in his voice. “You’re awake, you’re gonna be okay…!”

Sherlock held on as long as he could, wishing he could move his face, open his eyes- but content, overjoyed by the small amount of movement he had.

Marcus didn’t seem to know what to do. He cried, for what seemed like hours, until Sherlock grew tired and could no longer move his hand.

He fell back into sleep, hand still warm in an embrace, hope blooming in his chest for the first time in an eternity.

 

 

 

GREGSON

 

Every time Gregson’s phone rang, he paused before answering it, wondering if this was a call saying Sherlock had slipped away into his coma, his heart had stopped, and he and was lost forever. Maybe it would be a call saying Marcus hadn’t been able to take it anymore.

But he always picked up the phone, because he was the precinct’s Captain, and he had to keep his head screwed on right, no matter how much money he was spending on hard liquor lately, no matter how many bottles were crowding his bins. This was his job, this was his life, and he had owed it to Sherlock and Joan and Marcus to stay sane while they weren’t. The people of New York were still robbing and killing and raping and burning- there was no end of work for policemen, and the world wouldn’t stop just because Sherlock was dying.

The phone rang. Gregson sighed and considered it briefly, before picking it up.

“Captain Gregson.”

_“Hello Captain, it’s doctor Kiley Blake. Do you have a moment?”_

The doctor in charge of Sherlock. Gregson’s blood ran cold. “…Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

 _“I’m calling with good news, not bad,”_ He said, and Gregson’s posture sagged with relief. _“, Mr Holmes has regained muscle control in his hands, and is able to move his fingers.”_

“…Good, good! Is that significant, in the big scheme of things, or…?”

_“Yes- but, more importantly, he was able to squeeze Mr Bell’s hand in response to a question. It may have just been a spasm of muscles, but- judging from the subsequent movements- he could very well be conscious.”_

Gregson frowned. “What… You’re saying he’s awake?”

_“That’s precisely what I’m saying. Before, we assumed he was in a vegetative state- now, however, we’re reconsidering that. He may be suffering from Total Locked-In Syndrome, caused by the damage to his brain stem, and notably to the pons, located on the brain stem.”_

“How long do you think he’s been awake for?”

_“It’s difficult to tell. He may have always been awake.”_

“…It’s been more than six months.”

_“Yes. Diagnosis of LIS, particularly Total LIS, often takes several months. If not years.”_

Gregson’s head swam. He needed a drink. “So he might’ve been trapped inside his body this entire time, with no way of communicating. And no one knew.”

_“It’s a very common situation, with this condition. Because it’s so rare, and so similar in appearance to a coma or a vegetative state, some patients are never diagnosed.”_

Gregson took a breath, massaged his forehead. “And Marcus? How’s he coping?”

 _“He was very excited by Mr Holmes’ new progress, but …”_ Doctor Blake sighed. _“… too much hope may be dangerous, in this situation.”_

“What do you mean?”

_“I want to emphasise that very few LIS patients make a full recovery. Usually their movement is limited to eye movement and arm movement. We can operate on the damaged areas of his brain stem and attempt some muscle stimulation, now that we know exactly what’s wrong, but there’s no guarantee there will be any significant improvement at all.”_

 

 

 

MARCUS

 

He went home, and he couldn’t sleep- not because he was depressed, or angry, or having nightmare after nightmare about the bombing. He was buzzing. He couldn’t sit still. The excitement, the relief, the insane delight hummed through him. He couldn’t stand to eat dinner, couldn’t even begin to think about making something for himself. He dressed into exercise gear, throwing his jeans and shirt onto his bedroom floor, and took off into a run. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care.

All he knew was that Sherlock was awake. That was all he cared about.

He stopped, eventually, when the sky was a polluted city black, and it was probably the middle of the night. He fell into a heap by a roadside somewhere, lying on his back, arms thrown out, closing his eyes. He had no idea where he was. Mosquitoes hummed around him, and cityscapes had turned to derelict buildings and shells of cars. He knew he probably shouldn’t be in this neighbourhood, but he’d grown up around these parts- he wasn’t worried. These were his people.

He wondered how long Sherlock had been awake for. How much he’d heard. Marcus thought back on all the things he’d said, how much he’d cried. His pride flinched, but most of him couldn’t have cared less. He had no shame for how he felt anymore.

Knowing that Sherlock had probably heard him at his worst was, somehow, relieving. He’d been worried about being stable and calm when- or if- Sherlock woke up, but now he was sure Sherlock would understand if he was less than perfect.

_Sherlock._

Marcus breathed out, felt the cold of the night biting into him, now that his heart was slowing and the sweat was sticking to him.

His whole world was Sherlock, now. He wondered if that would change, when Sherlock woke up.

If. If he woke up.

He had to remember that this wasn’t over yet.

“’Ey, mister? Y’alright?” A cautious voice asked.

Marcus opened his eyes. A truck had pulled up next to him on the road, a young black kid sticking her head out the passenger window. Not getting out of the car, in case he was a junkie with a knife or a syringe. He could see a nervous mom in the driver’s seat, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

He grinned. “Yeah. Out for a run.”

He could see the disbelief in both the faces peering down at him; the only running done in these parts was fleeing from muggers and rapists. He was obviously, in their eyes, a fucking moron. Not an incorrect diagnosis. He probably should’ve known better.

“Should get away from the road, mister.” The mom said loudly. “Crazies hang ‘round here.”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“Get home safe now.” She cautioned, starting the engine and driving off. He hadn’t expected them to offer him a ride.

He got up, slowly, body tired- he’d cooled off too much. He looked around, and reconsidered the neighbourhood around him. A kid on a nearby street corner was lounging against the wall, a cigarette in his hand, wearing denim shorts and probably nothing else, body illuminated by a flickering streetlight. He looked over and winked, and Marcus felt his stomach sink. The kid was probably only seventeen, or younger.

“Lookin’ for a good time?” He called out.

Marcus shook his head and turned on his heel, taking off. His best friend had started selling himself when they were fourteen. Marcus knew this story like he’d lived it- though, thankfully, he hadn’t. He’d only had to watch as someone else did. His feet thudded against the dirt and concrete, moving faster now as the reality of this neighbourhood set in, and he had to remind himself he couldn’t save everyone. This was an entire demographic that needed saving.

He only hoped that, maybe, the universe owed him one miracle.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT'S THAT I SEE??? HOPE ON THE HORIZON?!?! HOLD ON DEAR READERS, A HAPPY ENDING IS COMING


	13. Chapter 13

SHERLOCK

 

Now that people knew he was awake, it changed everything.

Joan and Marcus took to holding his hand, asking him questions; their voices brightened considerably, and Marcus particularly showed notable improvement. Gregson came to visit as well, with relief in his voice. Sherlock felt less lonely than before, though still just as frustrated- but he was determined. He would overcome this. He would defy the odds against him. He couldn’t magically undo the damage to his brain stem, he needed to let that heal of its own volition- but he could, and would, fight as hard as he could to wake his body from its damned sleep. He was determined that his physiological improvement would not be hampered by any psychological weakness.

Weeks passed, while he got used to his small connection to the world, and then things started to change- he could move his arms, move his feet, twitch his toes. Weeks turned into months, seven months since the bombing, yet still he could not open his eyes.

 

But then, he could.

It was night time- Sherlock knew this because the ward went silent at night, and the orderlies were more relaxed, less professional, and tended to chat a lot among each other while handling him. They hurt him, often, and he noticed the bed sores more at night. He wished he could speak, just to beg them to be gentler, to scream at them in frustration.

There was one orderly, however, a young woman with a drawling accent who liked to tell him what date and day it was, in a kindly voice, while she changed his bedlinen or checked his vitals. He enjoyed her company. Over the time that had passed, he had wondered about her- who she was, why she worked nightshifts, why she’d chosen this career. He was able to glean some amount of information about her, even with his eyes closed; that she wore a strawberry scented perfume, cheap and overly sweet to hide the smell of cigarettes, that she found her job stressful but genuinely enjoyed caring for people, and that she was of a positive mindset.

“It’s midnight on the dot,” She was saying, as she tucked a fresh sheet around him. “And…”

She trailed off, stunned by a mutual shock they both shared in that moment- because Sherlock had opened his eyes.

He looked at her, and saw that her hair was ginger. He’d imagined her to have brown hair. She had a minor thyroid problem. She wasn’t nutritionally taking care of herself. She’d had her ears pierced several years ago, but had not worn earrings for a long time- at least three years, he guessed, judging by the amount of skin that had grown over the holes. He looked at her, and tears welled in his eyes- he could see.

“Oh,” She breathed, eyes wide. She hit the emergency button.

“Th…” He tried to speak, but couldn’t move his jaw past the breathing mask. She took it off, and he drew a breath- his voice was weak, barely there, but he managed a quiet, “Thank you,”, before she replaced the mask.

“Oh, darlin’.” Wonder filled her gaze, and she smiled widely. “I haven’ done nothin’ to warrant a thanks. You done woke up all by yourself.”

 

***

 

The doctors came to see him, to test him, to tell him how long it’d been, even though he knew. They shone a light in his eyes, replaced his breathing mask with a small tube under his nose, spoke down at him, and Sherlock had no patience for it. He answered all the questions, spoke and moved as best he could, his body weak and useless. They told him he was very lucky, and he didn’t doubt it for a moment. He was lucky to be moving, he was lucky to be speaking, he was lucky to be alive at all.

But all he wanted to do was see Marcus, and Joan, and even Gregson. He missed them. He missed being able to speak to them.

The doctors and nurses left him alone, eventually, telling him that it would be a few days before he could see anyone. They wanted to monitor the state of his brain.

He resigned himself to sleep, once again, as he had done for so many months. Only, this time, he did so with a sense of relief.

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

SHERLOCK

 

He woke up.

He moved his hands.

He slowly clenched his fingers, making loose fists, felt the underside of his arms straining minutely with the movements. Next, he curled his toes, twitched his feet, felt the pulling above his shins. He blinked until he could see- he’d been blind for so long. The ceiling was white. He could see so much- the plumbing problem in the walls, the lightbulb that needed to be replaced, the tiny cracks threading through the plater- and he was euphoric. He was alive, again. He could move. He could _see_.

“Sherlock?”

He looked sidewards. Joan Watson. His friend, his partner, his savoir. He opened his mouth to greet her, to tell her that he was alright, but his throat was too dry to speak. Smiling, tears in her eyes, she lifted a cup of water to his mouth.

He drank, and had never tasted anything more glorious.

“I’m so glad, Sherlock.” She whispered, withdrawing the cup. “I thought…”

He reached for her, took her hand. He was weak, but he could move and speak and see, and that was what mattered. She held his hand back, hard.

They stayed like that for a long time.

“I think we need to talk about Marcus.” Joan said, eventually.

Sherlock nodded.

“This might come as something of a shock, but I think he might… have feelings for you. He was here almost every day after the accident, and I thought it was just survivor’s guilt at first, but-”

“I know.” Sherlock said, only managing a hoarse whisper. “I was awake,” He swallowed. The sensation scraped the back of his throat, where the plastic tube had rested for so many months. “, the whole time. I heard everything.” He didn’t tell her about the words spoken by that roadside, the kiss, the blood. It was his and Marcus’ memory. Too raw and violent and precious. Joan didn’t need to bear that cross.

She stared. “It’s been seven months. The doctors said you might’ve been awake the whole time, but surely you… Surely you weren’t…?”

“I was.”

“…The _whole time_ …?”

He nodded.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, _Sherlock_.”

“I survived.” He smiled, for her benefit, but he needed to see Marcus. He needed to know that this mutual tragedy had been endured by not just one, but both.

Joan stared, stunned and horrified, and held his hand tighter.

“Was it her?” He asked. “Tyler Grant. She… killed him.”

She nodded, looking ill. “She came here, didn’t she? Visited you.”

“She did.” Sherlock didn’t ask how Joan knew. He had enough faith in her intelligence to trust she’d figured it out by herself.

“She… sent me a letter. I burned it. I didn’t want to… It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. No one would’ve been able to catch her.”

He didn’t disagree. But the discomfort was shared by both of them; no one deserved to be the recipient of Moriarty’s undivided creativity.

“You did… the right thing.”

She nodded, again, and there was relief in her eyes.

 

Marcus came.

He was thinner than he’d been before the bombing, but had started regaining muscle. He had the barest of limps, a slight unsteadiness to his gait. He’d kept his hair short, shaved close to his head, a number of scars peppering the his skull. His stubble and beard were shaved with the meticulousness that Marcus tended to show when he was under emotional stress. He was wearing a grey t-shirt, tight fitting, and Sherlock had missed the sight of him. Missed looking at him. He decided he’d never again forget to appreciate how beautiful Marcus was.

“Sherlock,” Marcus’ voice broke on his name, but he was smiling. Wider than Sherlock had ever seen him smile before.

He lifted his hand as much as he was able, smiling back, unashamed to feel tears in his eyes. Marcus took his hand, sat beside him.

“I’m so relieved,” He whispered. “I… Christ, Sherlock, you have no idea…”

Sherlock, through a gargantuan effort, lifted Marcus’ hand to his face, kissed his knuckles. Marcus swallowed loudly.

“I remember.” Sherlock murmured. “I remember everything.”

Marcus’ breath hitched unsteadily, and suddenly he was leaning down, and there was a soft mouth against Sherlock’s, a hand cupping the curve of his skull, fingers fitting over the nape of his neck. Over the brain stem, over his defective spine. Over the thing that had nearly killed him.

They didn’t speak, for a while, but they didn’t need to. Sherlock’s strength faded quickly, but it didn’t matter, because Marcus held him tight enough, close enough that all Sherlock needed to do was kiss back.

Marcus leaned back. Sherlock breathed him in, foreheads touching.

“It’s gonna get hard now.” Marcus whispered. “Recovery. But I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’ll be here for you. No matter what. You… You okay with that?”

Sherlock smiled. His eyelids were growing heavy, tired, but he didn’t want to close his eyes. “Yes.”

Marcus laughed. “Good.”

They held each other, until a nurse came to tell Marcus to leave, because Sherlock apparently needed to rest. Their hands lingered, Marcus pressing a final kiss to his lips, before he was gone, reluctantly hovering in the doorway.

 

 

 

JOAN

 

She went into her bedroom for the first time in months. Dust filled her nose as she opened the door, and she sneezed. She laughed at herself as she rubbed her nose. She opened the windows, let the air move through the space, making the curtains sway. She went to the bed- her bed- and pulled off her clothes, dressing in pyjamas, lying down.

It was warm, comforting, enveloping. Just like before.

She closed her eyes with a smile.

 

 

 

MARCUS

 

He went home.

He’d never slept better.

 

 

 

SHERLOCK

 

Later, Gregson came.

He had lost weight too, though not through any injury, not through any explosion. He looked tired, but relieved. As if he hadn’t been sleeping.

“Hey, Sherlock.” He said, smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Sherlock felt his stomach clench with sadness; he could smell alcohol on Gregson’s breath.

“Captain.”

Gregson stood there for a moment longer, eyes slipping closed. He took a deep breath in, let it out slowly. “It’s good you’re awake, Sherlock. I can’t tell you how…”

Sherlock was astounded. He hadn’t expected this. He’d known Joan and Marcus would suffer, seeing him like this, but had made the mistake of viewing his and Gregson’s relationship as businesslike, with the ease of friendship as well. But, smelling the very recent alcohol on Gregson, seeing his rumpled tie, his haggard face, made Sherlock realise he’d been wrong. There was a depth of care here that he had not anticipated.

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock said softly. He wanted to say more. He wasn’t sure what to say at all.

Gregson smiled. The affection and sadness in his expression caught Sherlock off guard.

He imagined that, had his father truly loved him, he might’ve looked at him like that too.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Sherlock.”

He reached down, squeezed Sherlock’s hand briefly, and then left.

Sherlock watched him go.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gregson breaks my heart.  
> Well, they all do. But I legit cried while writing his scene. It's funny, the scenes that can affect you more than others....


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This version of Sherlock's father is written entirely in headcanon)

SHERLOCK

 

The jubilation of waking did not last.

Rehabilitation came for him, as he’d logically known it would, and it was a horrid thing to endure.

Standing was difficult, at first, but possible, with aids and the nurses’ help. He remembered, starkly, standing in front of a mirror, two nurses holding him up.

He saw a thin, faded replica of the body he’d come to cherish, the body he’d worked so hard on for so long. He’d had confidence in himself, known his lovers would appreciate him and be satisfied in him, but all those years of confidence had come to an end.

His arms and legs were thin, bones jutting at his elbows and his knees, the neck of his hospital gown gaping to reveal the ugly raised line across his sharp collarbone. His face was gaunt, skin waxy and pale from months of surviving off intravenous food and water. His tattoos stood out harshly under the hard lights, covering his skeletal frame, and he realised he looked like an addict. He looked thin and frail, held up by the two tall, muscular nurses.

“I don’t want to look any more.” Tears filled his eyes, and he didn’t know how to stop them from spilling out onto his cheeks. He was gripping the nurses’ arms with all his might.

They lowered him onto the chair. He turned his head to the side.

“We’re not here to patronise you, Mr Holmes,” One of the nurses, Alicia, a beautiful black woman with her tight curls pulled back into a bun, laid a hand on his shoulder. Her bedside manner was firm, but caring. “, and I don’t intend to lie to you. This will not be easy. You need to accept who you are now. It’ll help you to realise who you want to become.”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to accept this. He didn’t want to be this ugly, ugly person. How could Marcus love him, when he looked like a corpse? He couldn’t even stand on his own, let alone kiss the man he wanted, let alone move against him, do the things he wanted to do. This wasn’t the glorious reunion he’d wanted. This wasn’t fair.

The other nurse, Brendan, a young white man with a shaved blonde head, held his other shoulder, and it was comforting to realise these two had seen countless patients like him, probably had several other rehabilitation cases going today alone.

“Would it help to have your friends here during the rehabilitation? Maybe someone you’re close with?”

Sherlock thought of Marcus seeing him this way and decided, no, it was better that he do this alone. Joan was picking him up outside the rehabilitation centre; all he had to do was pull himself together before the end of the session. He could text Joan once he was ready for her.

“I’m doing this alone.”

Brendan and Alicia exchanged short glance.

“That’s quite a decision to make, Mr Holmes.” Alicia nodded at him seriously. “But it can work, for some. If you’re strong enough.”

He smiled, tired but determined. “I am.”

 

***

 

He was set to be released in only two more days.

He hadn’t yet told either Marcus or Joan; there were many things to consider, things he didn’t want to think about; he could barely walk, so he’d need a wheelchair until his physical rehabilitation started gaining momentum- the brownstone was nowhere near equipped to handle wheelchair access. That aside, he couldn’t shower, go to the toilet, or even stand for prolonged periods by himself. While he knew that Joan was an experienced surgeon, she had never been a nurse, and he had no intentions of putting her in the position of needing to care for him.

That left Marcus.

Marcus had been through rehabilitation- not only once, but twice. He knew what it was like, being unable to walk, being unable to stand, being confined to a wheelchair. He knew what it meant to have your pride taken from your control. But there was this thing between them, this spark, this reciprocated attraction, this developing mutual dependence, and it genuinely frightened Sherlock- the last person he’d let this close was Irene. As if that wasn’t hard enough, as if that wasn’t enough to think about, he couldn’t pressure Marcus into being obliged to care for him throughout rehabilitation.

Marcus still came almost daily, which Sherlock enjoyed. But it was different now. They were both fully conscious, and the intensity of Marcus’ affections had receded a little, readjusted themselves to handle Sherlock’s newly awakened self. But it was still there, obvious as anything, and whenever Marcus looked at him, with that smile and with those deep brown eyes, Sherlock wanted to look away.

Marcus had feelings for him. And, most terrifying of all, Sherlock had feelings for him too.

 

***

 

“How was your session this mornin’?”

Sherlock shrugged, studying a Get Well card from Ms Hudson. It was dotted with hearts and flowers, scrawled in elegant pink ink. _Take care of yourself, Sherlock. I’ll keep the brownstone clean as a fiddle, you don’t need to worry about a thing._ His body ached, hands shaking with exertion when he held onto the card, but he’d managed to take five whole steps unassisted, and that was a record.

“Progressive.”

“Yeah?” Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Goin’ well, y’think?”

“I think so.” Sherlock folded the card, rested it against his thighs, folding his hands over the glittery pink cover. He tried not to think too hard about Marcus’ answering grin in response to his words, instead studying his fingers as the trembling subsided. “Do you believe you’ll go back to the precinct?”

Marcus’ smile faded. Sherlock felt oddly guilty.

“…I dunno.”

Sherlock nodded. He regretted bringing it up. “What about your calling?” He quietly asked. Marcus met his eyes reluctantly. “Being a detective.”

Marcus smiled again, this time timidly, hesitantly. Sherlock got the impression this had been on Marcus’ mind a great deal of late. “It’s still there. Once I get back on track, I’ll… I’ll think ‘bout it. What ‘bout you, though?”

Sherlock frowned. “What about me?”

“Think you’ll come back to the precinct?”

Sherlock sighed, supposing he should’ve expected that question. He’d been mulling it over, and come to the conclusion that, yes, he’d eventually have to find his way back into consultancy. Even if it seemed impossible, when he could barely walk.

“I imagine I’ll have to. I don’t cope well with boredom.”

“Yeah,” Marcus frowned, “how’d you deal, all these months?”

Sherlock paused. He decided not to mention the bedsores, the crying visitors, Moriarty’s threatening presence at his bedside, the guilt and the helplessness, and instead went with saying, “I have my methods.”

It was bullshit, he knew that, and apparently Marcus saw right through it, because he reached over and placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s.

Sherlock looked at their hands, thought about what that action meant. It did scare him. But he turned his hand over regardless, so their palms met, twining his fingers through Marcus’. He kept his eyes on their hands. He could feel Marcus looking at him.

He wanted this. Even if it scared him, even if he could imagine a dozen ways this could go wrong.

He really did want this.

Footsteps approached. Sharp, expensive footsteps.

Sherlock looked up, by now well acquainted with the sounds of his visitors, and realised why those footsteps were not familiar to him; because he’d only heard them once, since the bombing.

His father was standing in the doorway, looking at him and Marcus. At their hands. Sherlock was ashamed to feel the instinct to let go- instead, he tightened his grip, holding Marcus’ hand hard enough that his father would get the message.

Marcus frowned, and turned towards the doorway. He was confused; he’d never seen Sherlock’s father in the flesh. He couldn’t recognise him.

Sherlock swallowed thickly. A confrontation was approaching. Good or bad, he couldn’t tell, but he wouldn’t bet his money on the former.

“…Father.”

Mr Holmes nodded. “Hello, Sherlock.”

Marcus’ reaction was immediate; his hand tightened, anger flashed across his face, and his posture became rigid.

“So you’re the dad, huh.” He said flatly. "Finally felt like visiting, did you?"

“Marcus,” Sherlock cautioned him.

Marcus turned back to him, jaw clenched tight. He nodded, and stood. Sherlock enjoyed the way Marcus moved when he was angry. Slower. Threatening. Protective.

“I’ll go get some coffee.” Marcus announced in a low voice, a voice promising violence, shoulder brushing against Mr Holmes’ as he walked out. His jacket remained draped over the back of his chair. Marking ownership.

Which left Sherlock staring at his father.

“I see you’ve found yourself a partner.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was too tired for this. “Don’t start.”

“…I was going to congratulate you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. Surely he’d heard wrong.

His father looked down immediately, staring at his feet- Sherlock blinked hard and wondered if his brain damage had been more severe than previously thought. Surely he was hallucinating.

“I’ve not… been the best father, throughout the years. I intend to change that.”

Sherlock stared. He was definitely hallucinating; there was an expression, pleading and desperate, which he’d only ever seen on his father’s face once before- by their mother’s graveside. And that had been only for an instant, before the shutters came down. He’d never known his father’s weaknesses. He’d never even believed his father had enough emotions to warrant any kind of vulnerability.

“I’ve made arrangements. There’s a remarkable specialist, here in New York. If you wish to continue residing in the brownstone, I can make it more appropriate for wheelchair access, at least until you’re more recovered. But there’s a villa, of sorts, which caters for people during rehabilitation. Quite a unique facility. If you wish, I could find you a place there.”

If he hadn’t been so stunned, Sherlock would’ve laughed.

So this was what it took for his father to care for him the way normal fathers did.

As it was, he found himself incapable of speaking, let alone laughing. His father was staring at him expectantly, but not with the impatience and expectation that usually filled his eyes. He looked beseeching.

“Um,” Sherlock began, tapping on the cover of Ms Hudson’s card, distracting himself with the hollow tapping sounds. “Marcus… Marcus’ apartment was refitted for wheelchair access. While he recovered.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to suggest Marcus would look after him. But he didn’t know what else to say; he couldn’t think straight, with this stranger in his father’s skin, acting all… _caring_.

“…Oh.” Sherlock’s father looked disappointed, and embarrassed. He nodded. “Right. Yes, of course. Well, you’re welcome to stay wherever you wish.” He looked down at his shoes again, the uncharacteristic display of shyness making Sherlock wish for his cold, cruel and unrelenting father back. At least it would make more sense.

Mr Holmes drew a slow breath. “This… has been hard for me. Harder than I expected.” He looked up. “I want to fix things, Sherlock.”

Sherlock could only stare at him, dumbfounded.

He’d had been certain that his father had been lost forever; he did recall fond days between them, before he turned thirteen, before his mother died in the process of her third child’s miscarriage. Mycroft had remembered their father better than Sherlock, and perhaps that had been why he’d been the favoured son. Sherlock had been too young to understand. Too young to appreciate his father’s pain, his grief. The divide had grown, immeasurably and unstoppably, and Sherlock had been certain it was too late to do anything about it. His father had become a cruel man. Sherlock had become a cruel son.

But maybe. Maybe they could leave that all behind.

Sherlock met his father’s eyes.

“Alright.”

Silence fell, as if his father hadn’t expected it to be that easy. He smiled, suddenly, a wide, thrilled smile, his face blooming to life, crinkles spreading from the corners of his eyes. He nodded, trying to straighten his expression, contain his joy. Sherlock smiled too, slightly terrified by this abrupt change, thrilled by it.

“Well, I’ve,” Mr Holmes gestured aimlessly, as inarticulate as Sherlock had ever seen him. “I’ve got an important meeting. With Dr Scott, the specialist. He’ll want to meet you, of course. When you’re ready.”

Sherlock nodded. “My schedule’s free.”

The joke fell flat, but his father laughed heartily. There was an awkward moment of silence before he left the room.

 

Marcus entered again; his body language was tense, his frame rigid and stiff. His strides were slow and powerful- Sherlock decided that, without a doubt, Marcus was the sexiest man he’d ever seen in his life.

“Everythin’ okay?”

Sherlock unashamedly let his eyes wander Marcus’ body as he slowly sat. God, he wanted to ravish this man.

“…’Ey, you with me here?”

Sherlock, pulled from appreciating Marcus’ sublime physical attractiveness, blinked hard as the bizarre encounter with his father returned to the forefront of his mind. It was hard, if not impossible, to believe that conversation had actually occurred.

“He… wants to repair our relationship.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. Pursed his lips. “Huh.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

“You, uh…” Marcus gestured vaguely, dumbfounded. “…You down with that?”

Sherlock wasn’t quite certain how to answer that question. “If it’s at all possible. Which I seriously doubt.”

He didn’t need to look at Marcus to know what sort of expression he was wearing. Marcus had a faith in fathers that was based around his own father; hence, it was decidedly low.

“…S’pose you never know.” Marcus muttered, eventually.

Sherlock decided not to mention Marcus’ father. “Coffee good?”

“Yeah.” Marcus paused. “You can’t have any, can you?”

Sherlock sighed. Drinking from Marcus’ coffee cup… as typically romantic and clichéd as it sounded, the appeal of it was undeniable; this infatuation really was some form of textbook romance. And he’d never been happier.

“Not yet, I imagine. I’m still on several medications.”

“…But they weaned you off the strong stuff, yeah?”

The concern in his voice made Sherlock want to smile. “Of course.”

“Is that… You know, with your addiction history and all…?”

“Prescription drugs were never my vice of choice. Although it did worry me, for a while.” He paused. No sense in delaying it. “My father wanted me to move into a wheelchair-friendly villa. The brownstone isn’t equipped to handle a wheelchair, after all.”

“You gonna go?”

“I told him I would stay with you.”

Marcus stared. Then, he blinked once. Sherlock held his stare and swallowed nervously.

“If you don’t want-”

“That’s…”

They both fell silent. Slowly, a smile bloomed on Marcus’ face.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d… Sure. I’d like that.”

Sherlock smiled too.

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

MARCUS

 

This was absolutely nerve-racking.

His place was immaculate, in every sense of the word. It was clean, organised, spotless and perfectly designed for wheelchairs. It couldn’t have been more perfect- or, he worried, more boring. His apartment couldn’t possibly compare to the intricate, warm, complex home that had been built within Sherlock’s brownstone. Sherlock and Joan’s. What they had felt more like family. What he had… it was just him.

It was terrifying to think that, now, it wasn’t just him. Terrifying… and wonderful. All at once.

 

 

 

 

SHERLOCK

 

Sherlock lowered himself onto the seat in the shower, the plain ledge situated directly underneath the shower head, as yet turned off. Marcus’ hands gripped his, an arm around his back, assisting him.

“Alright?” Marcus quietly asked, breath warm and comforting, and Sherlock let himself nod. This wasn’t as humiliating as he’d expected it to be. Marcus had helped him undress, helped him stand, and there had been a look in his eyes- hungry, hesitantly interested, worried about pushing Sherlock in his fragile state, but wanting him all the same. Sherlock had realised, as his clothes had been carefully stripped of his body, that Marcus wanted him. And it had been a revelation.

Marcus stood, still dressed. Sherlock reached up to grasp his waist with one hand. Marcus looked down at him, surprised.

“You could stay,” Sherlock suggested, suddenly nervous, with Marcus looking down at him, “if you wanted.”

Marcus hesitated, then smiled. “You sure?”

“I am.”

Marcus pulled his bottom lip under his teeth, and nodded. He smiled, and was suddenly sinking to his knees, elegantly kneeling before Sherlock.

As he shifted back on the ledge, very conscious of his nakedness, part of Sherlock was silently praising Marcus for the gracefulness of his movements, considering his recent injuries and arduous rehabilitation. But most of Sherlock was focussed on Marcus’ hands, as they gently caressed Sherlock’s thighs, thumbs stroking the soft insides of his legs.

“Do you really want,” Sherlock swallowed. “You don’t have to do…that, if… if you don’t want to.”

Marcus raised a dry eyebrow in return. “You really think I don’t want this, after all this time?”

Sherlock sighed and shrugged helplessly, dizzy with relief, desperate to be touched.

Marcus leaned forward with a quiet hum, sighing against his skin, and Sherlock breathed in sharply. His hands rose, curving around the close-shaved shape of Marcus’ skull.

“I tried, y’know. While you were in hospital.”

“Tried,” Sherlock’s voice rose in pitch, shook, as Marcus licked him, gentle, teasing. “Tried what?”

“I tried to sleep with someone. Didn’t work. They weren’t you.”

“…Oh.” Sherlock breathed, for a moment forgetting everything, as Marcus reached up with one hand, steadied himself, and took Sherlock into his mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed, and he concentrated on breathing deeply. It had been so long, too long, for them both. He opened his eyes, and saw Marcus undo his jeans, reach below his waistband, and start to stroke himself. A whine, helpless, built in Sherlock’s mouth, and his fingers curled, scraping gently across Marcus’ scalp.

He had no expectations that this would last long at all.

Marcus rocked his hips into his hand, and Sherlock so wished he was without his clothes, so that he could see Marcus’ beautiful body, his smooth dark skin, his tight abdomen, the round curves of his shoulders, and the planes of his back. He contented himself with watching Marcus’ face tighten in desperation, eyebrows drawn together, eyes closed, opening, looking up at Sherlock with a reverence that had heat coiling in Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Marcus,” He whispered, so loud in the empty bathroom.

Marcus, in reply, took him deeper, and Sherlock arched his neck, letting out the first moan since this had started. Marcus gave an answering moan of his own, the vibrations of which shuddered through Sherlock’s body, up his spine, reverberating through his brain, tipping him over the edge. He gasped, caught off-guard.

“I think you should,” Sherlock couldn’t think straight, couldn’t say what he needed. “I think I might- Marcus,”

Marcus surged forward, nose pressed against Sherlock’s stomach- and Sherlock wondered where Marcus had learned this, who he’d learned this with, but was more focussed on the sheen of sweat building on Marcus’ skin, the jerky, fast movements of his hand, the rocking of his slim waist, the glistening of his lips-

“Marcus-”

And then, all too soon, Sherlock was gone, beyond holding back. He heard himself at a distance, embarrassed at how desperate he sounded, how helpless his moans were. Shudders travelled through him, neck arching, eyes closing, mouth opening. Shaking.

Marcus swallowed deeply.

Sherlock looked down, dazed, as Marcus leaned back, thick moisture wetting his mouth, panting. Sherlock made an attempt to steady his spinning mind, the post-orgasmic happiness swimming through his body and mind.

“Take your clothes off,” He ordered shakily.

Marcus stood, unsteady as Sherlock felt, and pulled his clothes off. He started with his shirt, breathlessly cursing the existence of buttons, moving on quickly to his jeans, bending down to pull them off, tossing  his shoes and clothes to the side. Sherlock stared at him, at his slim waist, his built upper body, his round biceps, his perfect body, and felt like the luckiest man in the world.

He leaned forward, took Marcus into his mouth. Marcus breathed in slowly, shocked.

“Don’t feel obliged or nothin’, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled away momentarily, long enough to say, “I want to.”

Marcus nodded, seeming to accept that, and Sherlock resumed his work.

It had been a very long time. He’d forgotten how to open his throat, relax, take it deep. It showed, when he choked, spluttered, inexperienced.

“It’s okay.” Marcus whispered, fingers in Sherlock’s hair, gentle, stroking. “Don’t force it.”

Sherlock breathed against his hip. He kissed Marcus’ abdomen, stomach, thighs, used his tongue. Teasing. Playful.

“Goddamnit,” Marcus hissed, eventually, hands tightening in his hair. Sherlock chuckled, still dazed from his own completion.

“You can be rough.”

Marcus went still, unsure. “Sherlock…”

“I like it.” Sherlock breathed, before taking Marcus as deep as he could- Marcus tipped his head back, unprepared, and Sherlock knew he was close.

Marcus began to rock his hips back and forward, unable to help himself, need overriding caution. Sherlock, despite already having come, felt the echo of arousal thumping through his veins. This had been his favourite pastime. Being used, being pleasured; being used for pleasure. His partners had always been accommodating, but like this, it was heaven. With Marcus. He’d do this forever.

“Christ,” Marcus whispered, a moan threading itself through his breaths, and Sherlock wished he could get hard again, just so he could come from that sound, that voice, that need. “I’m- Sherlock, you might wanna- oh fuck, fuck-”

Sherlock did as Marcus had done, throat rippling as he became reaccustomed to the taste. He moaned, relishing the way Marcus’ fingers gripped his hair, gripped the back of his neck, slid around to stroke his cheek, grasp his jaw.

“I’m so,” Marcus gasped, voice rising, “With you, I- I’m- oh god, oh god, Sherlock-”

Later, that was when Sherlock would say it happened.

He looked up at Marcus, at the way the light cooled his skin, the way moisture beaded on his chest, the tendons of his neck straining as he arched his neck, moaning- and it was like looking at a work of art, like a revelation. Sherlock couldn’t have described the beauty before him, or the indescribable, indisputable feeling that he had been saved.

Tears brimmed in his eyes, warm, spilling out onto his cheeks, and he felt safe. Safer than ever in his isolationist, lonely life- Irene had come closest, but she had been a lie, she had been a fake. Joan was a friend, the truest of friends. But this was more. This was intimacy.

“Sherlock…” Marcus went still as Sherlock pulled away, panting. “Sherlock? What,” He knelt, suddenly afraid, suddenly worried. He took Sherlock’s head in both his hands. “Sherlock, why’re you crying? Sherlock!”

Sherlock took a breath, heard it shake, break, turn into a sob.

“Oh Christ, what’s wrong, what did I do, what-”

“Thank you,” Sherlock managed to whisper. “I,” He wanted to say more, so much more, but he turned his face into the curve of Marcus’ neck and breathed in, crying, only managing to say, “thank you,” again.

Marcus seemed to understand. He pulled Sherlock close, and then they were on the tiled floor of the shower, in a clumsy embrace.

“It’s okay.” Marcus assured him, still worried, still sure he’d done something wrong. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. It’s all gonna be okay.”

Sherlock knew it, too. Because he had Marcus, now.

It was all going to be alright.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, you've stuck around until the end of this emotional rollercoaster, so thank you very much!!! I hope you enjoyed this fic, because I really adored writing it.... Leave comments or kudos if you like!  
> Thank you all~


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